

v::.-,:J 




THE STORYTELL 





Class _^ 

Book 

Copyright N?_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE STORYTELLERS 



THE 

STORYTELLERS 



SIX MONTHS WITH 
THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



With Numerous Illustrations 



THE STORYTELLERS COMPANY 

80 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 

1915 



V.K 



x^*^"^ 



v^^%% 



Copyright, 1915, by H. D. Newson 



Entered at the New York Post OfBce 
as Second-class Mail Matter 




JUL -6 1915 



'CI.A401674 



PREFACE 

"When Roman education was at its best," writes Professor 
Edward Porter St. John, in his excellent little book on "Stories 
and Storytelling," "stories of their national heroes and states- 
men, such as we find in Plutarch's lives, formed one of the most 
important parts of the curriculum. How largely the Hebrew 
life was shaped by story a glance at the Old Testament will 
reveal. 

"China, India, Arabia, Japan, honored the storyteller; 
they felt his charm and were molded by his magic. 

"For centuries the stories of Homer formed the only literary 
content of education among the Greeks, and they kept their 
place through the succeeding years of culture that we hardly 
equal to-day." 

The importance of the story in the education of the young is 
just beginning to be realized. It is the one form of education 
which children alwa3"s understand. 

To this fact more than any other perhaps is to be attributed 
the present widespread interest in Storytelhng. Heretofore we 
have looked upon it merely as a form of entertainment, a means 
of "keeping the children quiet." Now we are beginning to take 
it seriously, and can better understand what a great educa- 
tionist meant when he said "Good storytelling is the best in- 
tellectual qualification of the teacher." 

To all who take storytelling seriously this book wilt recom- 
mend itself. 



The stories which it contains have been selected for the dual 
purpose of interesting young people in good literature, and of 
improving their moral and ethical outlook. The articles on 
and information about storytelling have been written in a 
helpful, and it is believed an appreciative, spirit. 

In these modern days of materialism and industrialism but 
little is being done either in the home, in the Church or in the 
school for the moral and ethical education of the young. 

It remains for the Storytelling movement to supply this- 
great need by unfolding to the children, and to adults also, the 
great truths that lie hidden in folk tales, myths, hero stories 
and epics, since, as Professor St. John points out, "not only do 
they reflect the ideals which have shaped the social and re- 
ligious life, but they have shaped those ideals and have given 
them form and power. As factors in molding character the 
stories of the gods are not less important than the rites of wor- 
ship." 



CONTENTS 



JUNE 

Nimmy Nimmy Not. Retold 

Emehjn N . Partridge and George E. Partridge 
The Taileypo Richard T. Wyche 



Catherine T. Bryce 

. Richard T. Wyche 

George Everett Partridge 

. Mary W. Cronan 



Johnny Cake. Retold 
The Twelve Months. Retold 
Story Telling and Education 
Story Telling in Boston 
The Stone Lion. Retold 

Emelyn N. Partridge and George E. Partridge 

The Oyster and Its Claimants 

From La Fontaine's /Esop's Fables 
The Psycho-Therapeutic Value of Story Telling Frances E. Foote 

Story Telling For Mothers 

The Beowulf Club of West Virginia University John Harrington Cox 
How to Organize a Story Tellers' League 
What the Leagues are Doing . 

Editorial 

The Mother— The Child— The Story 
The Great Epics — Story Hour Cycle 
Some Recent Books .... 

Bibliography 

Story Tellers' Leagues 
Business Department 



Page 
1 

7 

10 
13 
19 
24 

26 
29 

30 
32 
34 
35 
36 
37 
39 
40 
42 
44 
51 
55 



JULY 

The Storytellers' Bequest to all Boys and Girls .... 59 
King Arthur's Tomb, Innsbruck .... Frontispiece 
The Story of King Arthur (In Twelve Numbers) First Number: 

Merlin and His Prophecies . . Winona C. Martin 61 



JULY — Continued 



Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata . 
A Rose from Homer's Grave 
The Image in Story Telling 

Endymion 

The Story of St. Christopher . 
The Story of England's First Poet . 
The Uncle Remus' Stories 

Their Evolution and Place in the 
The Three Goats .... 

Story Telling in Washington, D. C. 
Story Telling for Camp Fire Girls . 
The Play Spirit in America 
What the Leagues Are Doing . 
From the Editor's Study . 
From the Book Shelf 
Directory of Story Tellers' Leagues 
The Business Manager's Story 



Percival Chubb 

Frederick A . Child 

. Richard T. Wyche 

George Philip Krapp 

Josephine Leach 

Curriculum. 

Jessica Child s 
. Marietta Stockard 
. Ellen Kate Gross 
. Richard T. Wyche 



72 

77 

79 ^ 

82 

85 

90 

94 

97 

99 
101 
103 
106 
107 
112 
115 
119 



SEPTEMBER 

"The Enchanted Sword" Illustration 130 

Heroes. A Poem Gertrude C. Hopkins 130 

Come unto Me — Ye Weary and Heavy Laden . Frontispiece 

Helping the Master Eveleen Harrison 133 

Seek and Ye Shall Find .... Eulalie S. Garrison 136 
The Unexpected Prince and the King of the Underground 

Charles Welsh 138 

The Story of Persephone .... Richard T. Wyche 148 

The Story of an American Boy who became Painter to George the 

Third Frederic A. Child 150 

The Moon and I 154 

The Story of King Arthur (In Twelve Numbers) Second Number : 

How Arthur Won His Kingdom . Winona C. Martin 155 



SEPTEMBER— Con/m ued. 

Page 

The "Uncle Remus" Stories. Second Paper Josephine Leach 168 

A Knight of France Catherine T. Bnjce 172 

The Dwarf's Revenge .... Marietta Stockard 176 
The Educational Value of the Literature of the Northland 

Vida Fort 179 

Camp Fire Ceremonials .... May Arnett Reichel 183 

Story Telling Notes 187 

From the Editor's Study 193 

The Business Manager's Story 195 

OCTOBER 

Story Telling Class Illustration 198 

The Little Mouse Pie ....'. Mabel C. Bragg 199 

Cally Coo-Coo o' the Woods . . . Seumas MacManus 202 

The Black Tower or the Silver House . . Amy P. Hoy t 210 
The Story of King Arthur (In Twelve Numbers) Third Number: 
How Arthur Won His Sword, "Excalibur," 

His Bride and His Round Table . Winona C. Martin 214 

The Story of a Paper Cutter From the French of Chas Defodon 227 

A Bowl of Porridge Elizabeth Colson 231 

How a Story Telling League Was Forn.ed . Anna E. Logan 234 

Barney Noonan's Fairy Haymakers . . Marietta StocJaird 239 

The Katy Hagy Storytellers Eva Dawson 242 

The Teacher and the Story . . . Sarah Lee Odend'hal 243 ^ 

From the Book Shelf 246 

From the Editor's Study 248 

NOVEMBER 

Miss Harrison's Children's Hour .... Illustration 252 

"Once Upon A Time" Eieleen Harrison 253 

The Psychology of the Story . . . Edward C. Wilson 262 

The Sunshine Fairies Lynn Morton 263 



NOVEMBER— Cow/j>? ned. 

Page 

Oochigeaskw, the Little Scarred Girl Emelyn Newcomh Partridge 265 

"Little B 03%" poem Leonora Beck Ellis 270 

The Old Iron Pot John H. Cox 271 

The Miracle of Love ..... lola Gertrnde Waller 27 Q 

Why the Cat Spits at the Dog Rebecca Wentworth Spalding 278 
The Story of King Arthur (In Twelve Numbers) Fourth Number: 
The Adventures of Gareth the Kitchen Knave 

Winona C. Martin 279 

The Bible as a Story Book . . . Richard Morse Hodge 294 

From the Book Shelf . . .298 

What the Leagues are Doing 299 

From the Editor's Study 303 

Out of the East Lafcadio Beam 305 

Story Tellers' League Directory 306 

DECEMBER 

An Unexpected Climax . . . . . . Frontispiece 312 

Blind Bartimseus .... Catherine Turner Bryce 313 

Christmas Eve with the Seven Poor Travelers Charles Dickens 319 

A Boy's Visit to Santa Claus . . Richard Thomas Wyche 332 
The Story of King Arthur (In Twelve Numbers) Fifth Number 
The Adventures of Geraint with the Sparrow Hawk 

Winona C. Martin 337 
Paulina's Christmas 

Adapted from Anna Robinson s " Little Paidina " 351 

The Christmas Visitor Marietta Stockard 355 

The Story of the Lion and the Old Hare (A Hindu Folk Story) 357 

The Conservation of a Noble Heritage Thomas C. Blaisdell 358 

Story Telling Notes 360 

From the Editor's Study . . . 363 

From the Mail Bag 365 

Story Tellers' Leagues 366 



3uRe 

June overhead ! 

All the birds know it, for swift they have sped 

Northward, and now they are singing like mad; 

June is full-tide for them, June makes them glad, 

Hark, the bright choruses greeting the day — 

Sorrow, away! 

— Selected, 



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No. 1 



^'M'MlS51M325M3^!SSJ^JSJ'M3H[32JE550J_O'M'JSJ lyJiyi'MK? 5S? O O M'M'M'Miiyj'iyj'M^^' 



Nimmy Nimmy Not 

An English Fairy-tale 
Retold from English Folk and Fairy Tales — Camelot Series 

This story is built upon the Hues of a perfect dramatic unit, as set forth by Freytag 
in his "Technik des Dramas" — (1) Exposition. Facts preceding the principal interest, 
i. e. the girl and her mother, etc. (2) Ascending Action. The coming of the king. The task. 
The development of the plot. (.S) The Climax. This is the revelation of the name by the king, 
followed by the Supreme Moment which was the revelation of the proper name to Nimmy Nimmy 
Not.- (4) Descending Action. The disposal of the villain through his "shrivelling up" and 
"flying away." (5) Conclusion. "Living happy ever after." 

Joseph Jacobs in his "English Fairy Stories " gives us the following information in regard 
to the story: "l^nearthed by Mr. E. Clodd, from the Suffolk Notes and Queries of the Ipswifck 
Journal, and re-printed by him in Folk-Lore Journal vii. 138-43. It has its parallels in Devon- 
shire's as "Duffy and the Devil," in Hunt's Romances and Drolls of the J]^est of England, 239-47; 
in Scotland two variants are given by Chambers, "In Popular Rhymes of Scotland." It is clearly 
the same as Grimm's "Rumpelstilskin" (No. 14). 

Mr. Clodd sees in the class of name-guessing stories, a "survival" of the superstition that 
to know a man's name gives you power over him, for which reason savages object to tell their 
names. It may be necessary — to explain to the little one, that Tom Tit can only be referred 
to as "That" because his name is not known until the end. 

The version of the story here given is republished by permission from "Story Telling in 
School and Home," by Evelyn Newcombe Partridge and George Everett Partridge, Ph. D., New 
York. Sturgis & Walton Co. 

The illustrations for the storyj are reproduced from "English Fairy Stories," through 
the courtesy of ths author Joseph Jacobs and the publishers Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sens, 
New York. 

ONCE upon a time there was a woman, and she baked five pies. 
And when she took them from the oven, she found that they 
had baked so long the crusts were too hard to eat. So she 
said to her daughter: 

"Put you them there pies on the shelf, and by and by they'll 
come again," She meant, you know, the crust would get soft. 

The girl, she took the pies into the pantry, and she put them upon 
the shelf in a long even row. She looked at them, and she thought 
how good they would taste. 

1 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

"Well, if them there pies'll come again," she said to herself, "I 
may as well eat them now." 

So she ate them all, first and last! 

Come supper time, the woman said: 

"Go you and get one of them there pies, I dare say they've 
come again by this time." 

The daughter she went into the pantry, and she looked at the 
shelf. There were the five pie plates just as she had left them, — empty! 
So she went back to her mother and she said: 

"Noo, they ain't come again." 

"Not one of them.?" said the mother. 

"Noo, not one of them," says she. 

"Well, come again or not come again, I'll have one for my 
supper." And the old woman went toward the pantry. 

"But you can't have one, if they ain't come again, mother.'* 

"But I can," the woman declared. "I'll have the best one for 
mj' supper." 

"Best or worst," the daughter said, " Fve ate them all! And you 
can't have one 'til they've come again ! " 

WVll, the woman, she was so astonished she forgot all about sup- 
per. She carried her spinning to the doorway, and as she span, she 
sang a little song about her daughter: 

" My daughter has ate five, five pies today, 
My daughter has ate five, five pies today!" 

Now the king was coming down the road, and he heard the woman 
singing, but he could not he^ar the words. So he stopped in front of 
the door and said: 

"My good woman, what were you singing?" 

Now the old woman did not want anyone to know what a greedy 
daughter she had; so she sang instead of that, 

"My daughter has spun ^ve,five skeins today." 

"Land sakes alive!" said the king, "I never heard tell of anyone's 
doing that. Now look you here, my good woman. I want a wife, and 
I'll marry your daughter. But look you here. For eleven months of 
the year she shall have all the victuals she wants to eat, and all the 
clothes she wants to wear, and all the company she likes to keep. 
But the twelfth month, she mnst spin five skeins every day, or off'll go 
her head!'' 

"All right," says the woman, for she thought: 

2 



N I M M Y 



N I M M Y NOT 



" What a grand marriage this will be. And as for them there five 
skeins, by that time he'll forget all about them." 

So they were married. And for eleven months the girl had all 
the victuals she wanted to eat, and she had all the clothes she wanted 
to get, and she had all the company she liked to keep. But sometimes 
she felt a little uneasy. Sometimes she thought of that spinning she 
must do. 

The king, he never said one word about the five skeins, so as the 
eleven months had nearly passed, the girl thought that he had forgot- 
ten all about it. 

But one day, it was the last day of the eleventh month! The king 
came to her, and he took her into a little room she had never seen 
before. There was nothing in it but 
a spinning wheel and a little chair and 
a small bare table. 

"Here, my girl," says he, "here 
I'll put you tomorrow. And I'll lock 
the door. And here you must stay all 
day long. At night I'll come, and if 
you've not spun the five skeins, off'll 
go your head!'" And away he went 
about his business. 

Well, the girl was that frightened! 
She had always been such a gatless 
creature that she didnt even know hoiu 
to spin! She sat down on a stool and 
she began to cry. How she did cry! 

However, all of a sudden she heard 
a knocking, knocking, low down at the 
door. She got up and she opened the 
door. There stood a little black thing, 

WITH A LONG BLACK TAIL. And That looked up at her out of 
the corner of That's eyes, and That says : 

"What are you crying for.^*" 

"What's that to you.^*" says she. 

"Never you mind, but tell me what you are crying for. Perhaps 
I can help you," the little black thing told her. 

"Well, it can't do any harm, if it doesn't do any good," she 
thought. So she told him all about the five pies, and the five skeins 
and everything. 




THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

"This is what I'll do," says that little black thing, twirling his 
BIG BLACK TAIL. I'll come to your window every morning and 
get the flax, and at night I'll bring it home all spun." 

"What's your pay?" says she. 

That looked at her again out of the corner of That's eyes. "I'll 
give you three guesses every night to guess my name, and if you 
haven't guessed it by the last night, yo}i shall he MINE!" 

The girl thought that she would be sure to guess it before the 
month was up, so she said: 

"All right." 

"All right," That says, and hoio That did hvirl That's tail! 

Well, the next day, the king took her into the room, and there 
was the flax, and the day's supply of victuals. 

"Now, my dear," says he, "if that ain't spun by night, off'll go 
your headr Then he went out and locked the door behind him. 

The king had no sooner gone, than a hnock, — knock came at the 
window. There was the little black thing sitting on the window ledge. 
She gave him the flax and away he flew. 

Well, at evening, the knocking came again at the window. The 
girl opened it, and there stood the little black thing with the flax on 
his arm, all beautifully spun. 

"Here it is," he said, as he gave it to her. "Now, what's my 
name.'' 

"Is that Bill.'*" says she. 

"Noo, that ain't," says he, and he twirled his tail. 

"Is that Ned, then?" 

"Noo, that ain't." 

"Well, is that Mark, then?" she asked. 

"Noo." And That twirled That's tail harder and away That 
flew. 

When the king came in, there were the skeins beautifully spun. 

"Well, I see, my dear, that you won't lose your head tonight." 
And he went away and left her locked in the room. 

So every day the flax and the food were brought to the girl. And 
every morning the little black imp would knock at the window and 
carry away the flax, and every night it would bring back the flax 
spun. And every night the girl would try the three times to guess 
the imp's name, but she could never guess the right one. 

At last, the last day had come. And that night when the imp 
brought back the skeins, he said: 

4 



N I M M Y , N I M M Y NOT 

"What, ain't you guessed my name yet?" 

"Is that Nicodemas?" says she. 

"Noo, that ain't," That says. 

"Is that Samuel.^" 

"Noo, not that neither." Then That looked at her with That's 
eyes like coals of fire, and That says: 

"Woman, there's only tomorrow night, and THEN YOU'LL BE 
MINE ! ' ' And away That flew. 

Well, the girl she felt that bad. However, she heard the king 
coming along the passage. In he came, and when he saw the five 
skeins, he said: 

"My dear, I don't see but you'll have your skeins ready tomorrow 
night as well, so I reckon I shall not have to kill you, and I'll have 
supper in here tonight." 

So they brought the supper in , and the two sat down to the table. 

Well, he had eaten but a mouthful, when he began to laugh. 

"What are you laughing at.^" the girl asked him. 

"Well, today when I was out in the forest, I saw the funniest 
sight. ... I was in a strange part where I had never been before. And 
I saw an old chalk pit. . . . And I heard the queerest humming and 
humming coming from the pit. So I got off my hobby and crept 
over to the pit without making a bit of a sound. And there I saw the 
strangest looking little black thing with a long, black tail. And That 
was sitting at a little spinning wheel, and That was spinning so fast 
that I could scarcely see the wheel. And while That span, That sang, 

"Nimmy, nimmy not. 
My name is Tom Tit Tot." 

"And That kept singing it over again and again." 

When the girl heard this, she was so happy that she could almost 
have jumped out of her skiu for joy, but she didn't say a word. 

Next day, that little black thing looked so maliceful! And when 
night came she heard the knock at the window, she opened it, and the 
little black thing jumped into the room. He was grinning from ear 
to ear, and O! That's tail was twirling round so fast! 

"What's my name?" That said, as That gave her the skeins. 

"Is that Solomon?" said the girl, pretending to be afraid. 

"Noo, that ain't," That said, and That came further into the 
room. 



THE STORYTELLERS^ MAGAZINE 

" Well, is that Zebedee? " says she again. 

"Noo, that ain't." And then That laughed, and twirled That's 
tail until you could hardly see That. 

" Take time, woman ! The next guess AND YOU ARE MINE ! " 
And That stretched out That's black hands at her. 

Well, she moved back a step or two, and she looked at that little 





black thing, and then she laughed out, and says she, pointing her 
finger at it, 

"Nimmy, nimmy not. 
Your name is Tom Tit Tot." 



When that black impet heard her. That shrivelled right up, and 
away That flew and was never heard of again. 

And the girl lived happily ever after, and the king never again 
asked her to do any more spinning. 

6 



THE T A I L E Y P O 



The Taileypo 

BY RICHARD T. WYCHE 



The Taileypo story was told to me by the Rev. George Washington Neale, a student 
friend of mine, years ago, in Chicago University. Mr. Neale said that he had heard the story 
many times in his childhood, from the lips of the old negro story tellers in Tennessee. This 
story has its variant in the story of "The Golden Arm," which was written by Mark Twain, 
Joseph Jacobs and also in a collection by S. Baring-Gould. 

It is a story that loses much in the writing, as it is impossible to give voice modulation 
in cold print. After hearing Mr. Neale tell it a number of years ago, in Chicago, I took it up 
and began to tell it, and found many people in the South, who had heard the old negroes tell 
it. 

In January 1905, I was in Atlanta, Ga., and went with Joel Chandler Harris, the author 
of "I ncle Remus," to the West End School, where I told a number of Uncle Remus stories to 
the children. Beginning in the first grade, where Mr. Harris's little grandson was then a pupil 
and ending in the higher grades, where I told The Taileypo story. When the story was done, 
Mr. Harris said it was one of the best negro stories he had heard, but that I did not have all 
of the story. There was, he said, another piece of the story that should be linked with this 
to make it complete, and I said to Mr. Harris: "Find the other piece, and write the story com- 
plete." 

One year after that Harris published the story in the Metropolitan Magazine, New York, 
January 1906. Harris gave it a setting and artistic atmosphere, bringing in Brer" Rabbit and 
Mister Man. He put it in the mouth of I'ncle Remus, and had the old negro, as in his other 
books, tell the story to the little boy. That was a demonstration to me as to how Harris took 
many of the negro stories in the raw, and passing them through the magic of his imagination 
made them into art. 

We are frequently puzzled to find humorous stories for the boys and girls, — they must 
have humor. This story has universally amused them wherever it has been told. In it reverber- 
ates the barbaric ages from whence the race came, and it is a spontaneous expression of life 
from the primitive standpoint. To find a story that the boys and girls think humorous, and to 
laugh together with them, is decidedly refreshing and healthful to the teacher, who has 
dwelt so much on grammatical forms which are not fundamental in a child's interest. As 
Joseph Jacobs, says, "The children know the happenings in the story are make-believe just as 
much as the spectators of a tragedy. Every one who has enjoyed the blessing of a romantic 
imagination has been trained upon such tales of wonder." 

However, if one's imagination and sense of humor is undeveloped, and the story is taken 
seriously rather than humorously, it loses its value and should not be told. For that reason 
the story teller or teacher must study his auditors. 

As Uncle Remus would say, I will " 'gin it out to you as it was 'gunt to me." 

IN the mountains of Tennessee, 'way back in de big woods, lived 
onct a man, in a house all by his self. This man had one room 
to his house, and dat room was his kitchen. 

One night, when de man was sleepin on his bed, he heerd sup'ner 
roun de fire place snifflin, lickin de pots, de fryinpans, and de skillets, 
car'en on and g'wyin on. De man struk a light, and dar he see de 
curioses lookin varmint what you ever laid eyes on, a varmint wid a 

7 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

great, long tail. No sooner de man see de varmint dan he retched 
for his hatchet. He made one sweep at him, and clipped his tail 
squar off behime. De varmint he run out thu de cracks er de logs 
and tiik to de woods. 

De man, fool-lik, took an cooked de tail, et it, — and den he went 
to bed. 'Way long in de night, suppen cum and got up over de 
man's do, and scratched and sed: 

"Taileypo, I want's my ta-a-a-a-a-a-iley-po." 

De man had three dogs: one name Uno, and one Ino, and one 
Cumticocalico. De man call his dogs, "Yer! Yer! Yer!" 

De dogs dey cum bilin out frum under de house. De varmint 
he run down side de house and jumped. De dogs snapped at him, 
but he got away, and dey run'ed him and run'ed him 'way back in de 
big woods. De man he tuk, he did and went back to bed, and went 
to sleep. 

But 'way long in de night, de thing cum and got up in de crac' 
er de man's do and sed: 

"Taileypo, you know, — I know, — all I want's my Ta-a-a-a-a-a- 
iley-po." 

De man call his dogs, "Yer! Yer! Yer!" 

Lino, Ino and Cumticocalico cum abustin roun de cordner of de 
house. De varmint jumped down from de side of de house and tuk 
to de woods. De dogs ketch him at de gate, — knock down de gate 
an tore down de fence. He got away, but dey jus' natchally tore 
up de earth runnin him 'way frum dar. De man tuk, he did and 
went back to bed and went to sleep. 

'Way long in de night, jus befo day, de man he heard sup'ner 
down de hill, sayin: 

"Uno, Ino, all I want's my Ta-a-a-a-a-a-iley-pcn " 

By and by he heard him in de crack up over de do, sayin: 

"Taileypo, I want's my Ta-a-a-a-a-a-iley-po." 

De man call de dogs, "Yer! Yer! Yer!" 

De dogs didn't cum: de Taileypo dun car'ed em off sumeres 
in de woods, lost em or kil't em. 

Arter a while — de Taileypo stop. Everything was still. De 
man drapped back on his pillow, but fo long he feel supen and heard 
sUpen scratchin and clawin at de foot of de bed. Supen ketch holt 
er de kivers, and clawed lak a cat a'climin up. De man rais his 
haid up and look, and he see two bright eyes, lak balls er fire, lookin 
right pine blank at him frum de foot er de bed. De varmint crawl up 



ONCE UPON A TIME 



nigher and nigher on de man. He can see his little short 'years 
by de light er his eyes. De varmint say right easy to de man again: 

"Taileypo — I want my te-e-e-e-e-e-eley-po!" 

De man try to holler. He opens his mouf, but lak a man in his 
sleep, he ca'nt mak a soun'. De varmint crawl right up on top er 
de man and say right easy again: "Taileypo." 

"I want's my te-e-e-e-e-e-eley-po!" 

De man's voice cum back to him, and he say: 

"I aint got your taileypo." 

De varmint says, "Yes, you is.-'^ 

He jumped on de man and scratch him all to pieces, and got his 
taileypo. 

All dat's lef of de man's house now is de rude heart-stone, and 
dey say dat when de moon rises roun and red and shines down dat 
lonely hollow, and de win' blow, dat you can hear a voice in de win' 
day say: 

"Tail-a-a-a-a-a-e-eley-po-o-o-o!" and die in de distance. 



Once Upon a Time 

EVERY now and then the postman leaves at the office of The Evening 
Sun a message that brims over with pleasure for the recipient. 
Among such communications we gratefully acknowledge the following, 
addressed to us by a young friend in the South: 

"Durham N. C. March 29. 
"Dear editor — I like the Once upon a time stories very much pleas make them a little 
longer Father reads them to me after Supper, do you tell them to your little boy or girl with 
love Lucy Glasson Mary likes them to" 

Time was, Lucy, when we told some of these stories to our little boy 
and girl at bedtime, and now, years afterwards, we are glad to think that 
we can tell them over to thousands of other people's little boys and girls. 
If only they will think of us occasionally as Lucy Glasson does, "with 
love," how rich will be our reward. A^. 1'. Ercning Sun. 



North Carolina has recently organized a Folk-Lore Society, which 
will be a branch of the National Folk-Lore Society. 



THE STORYTELLERS 



MAGAZINE 




Johnny Cake 



Mr. Joseph Jacobs publishes this story in his Collection of "English Fairy Tales." 
He gives as his source "American Journal of Folli-Lore," ii. 60. Another variant of this story 
is found in "The Gingerbread Boy," in St. Nicholas, May, 1875. Chambers gives two versions 
of the same story, under the title "The Wee Bunnock," the first of which is one of the most 
dramatic and humorous of folk tales. Unfortunately the Scotticisms are so frequent as to render 
the Droll practically untranslatable. "The Fate of Mr. Jack Sparrow" in Uncle Remus is 
similar to that of Johnny Cake. 

The version herewith is taken from the Aldine Fourth Reader, by Frank E. Spaulding 
and Catherine T. Bryce, through the courtesy of the publishers, Newson & Company, New York. 



ONCE upon a time there was an old man, and an old woman, and 
a little boy. One morning the old woman made a Johnny 
Cake, and put it into the oven to bake. 
Then she said to the little boy: "You watch Johnny Cake while 
your father and I go out to work in the garden. Don't let it burn." 
The little boy soon got tired watching the oven, and went to 
look out of the window. All of a sudden he heard a noise back of 
him. He looked around quickly. The oven door popped open. 
Out jumped Johnny Cake. Away he went rolling along, end over 
end, through the open door, down the steps, and out into the road, 
long before the little boy could catch him. 

"Mother! Father! Johnny Cake's running away!" cried the 
little boy, and down the street he ran after Johnny Cake. 

10 



JOHNNY CAKE 




His father and mother 

threw down their hoes and gave 

chase too. But Johnny Cake 

outran all three a long way, and 

was soon out of sight. The old 

man, the old woman, and the 

little boy, quite out of breath, 

sat down by the roadside to rest. 

On ran Johnny Cake. By 

and by he came to two well 

diggers, who looked up from 

their work and called out, 

" Where are you going Johnny? " 

"I've outrun an old man, 

an old woman, and a little boy, 

and I can outrun you, too-o-o!" 

"You can, can you.^^ We'll 

see about that!" 

Thej^ threw down their spades and ran after him. But Johnny 

Cake outstripped them also. Seeing they could never catch him, 

thay gave up. 

On ran Johnny Cake. By and by he came to a bear. 
"Where are you going Johnny?" growled the bear. 
"I've outrun an old man, an old woman, a little boy, and two 
well diggers, and I can outrun j'ou, too-o-o!" 

"You can, can you?" 
growled the bear; "we'll see 
about that!" 

And he rushed thump, 
thump, after Johnny Cake, 
who never stopped to look 
behind him. Before long the 
bear was left far behind, so at 
last, breathless and panting, 
he stretched himself out by 
the roadside to rest. 

On ran Johnny Cake. 
By and by he came to a wolf. 
" Where are you going, Johnny 
Cake?" yelped the wolf. 

U 




THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"I've outrun an old man, an old woman, a little bo3% two well 
diggers, and a bear, and I can outrun you, too-o-o!" 

"You can, can you?" snarled the wolf; "we'll see about that!" 

And he set into a gallop after Johnny Cake, who went on so fast 
that the wolf saw there was no hope of overtaking him, and he, too, 
lay down to rest. 

On ran Johnny Cake. By and by he came to a fox that lay 
quietly in a corner of the fence. 

"Where are you going, Johnny Cake.'^" called the fox, in a sharp 
voice, but without getting up. 

"I've outrun an old man, an old woman, a little boy, two well 
diggers, a bear, and a wolf, and I can outrun you, too-o-o!" 

"I can't quite hear you, Johnny Cake; won't you come a little 
closer.?" said the fox. 

Johnny Cake went a little nearer to the fox and called out in 
a very loud voice : 

"I've outrun an old man, an old woman, a little boy, two well 
diggers, a bear, and a wolf, and I can outrun you, too-o-o!" 

"Can't quite hear you; won't you come a little closer?" said the 
fox, in a feeble voice, as he put one paw behind his ear. 



Johnny Cake 
and leaning towards 
out, "I've outrun 
woman, a little boy, 
bear, and a wolf, 
you, too-o-o!" 

"You can, can 
fox, and he snapped 
a twinkling. 




came up quite close, 
the fox, screamed 
an old man, an old 
two well diggers, a 
and I can outrun 

you?" yelped the 
up Johnny Cake in 



12 



T H E T W E L V E ISI O N T II S 










jy^G>iTj>^> 



Bohemian Fairtt Story 

J^L R. T. WYCHE J^Ma 



IN THE BOHEMIAN land there lived a woman, who had one 
daughter named Katinka, and a stepdaughter named Dobrunka. 
The woman, naturally, loved her own daughter more than she did her 
step-daughter, but her own child was not as fair nor had she as 
pleasing a disposition as had the stepdaughter Dobrunka. 

This displeased the woman so that she made Dobrunka, the step- 
daughter, do all the housework, the cooking and the churning, whereas, 
her own daughter, Katinka, she dressed in fine clothes and let her 
live in idleness. And more than that — she frequently allowed 
Katinka to order Dobrunka around the house as if she were a servant. 
Dobrunka was always pleasing in countenance and in spirit, and the 
work she did made her strong and wholesome, whereas the idleness 
in which Katinka lived made her very disagreeable. 

13 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

One day, Katinka came to Dobrunka, and said: "Dobrunka, 
I want some violets; go out into the fields or the forest and find me 
some." 

Dobrunka said, "Why Katinka, that is a strange request. This 
is not the time for violets; it is mid-winter." 

Whereupon Katinka grew very angry and said: "Go, do as I 
say and bring me some violets, or I shall beat you to a jelly." With 
that Katinka pushed her out of the door and with the help of her 
mother barred the door behind her. 

Now, it was mid-winter and snow was upon the ground, and 
Dobrunka started through the forest not knowing what to do. As she 
walked along the forest, she saw on a hillside a fire burning. Soon 
she came to the fire, and there sat twelve old men with long grey 
beards. Their names were the Twelve Months. 

It was mid-winter, and January, of course, was presiding. As 
Dobrunka came near to the group, not knowing what to do nor where 
to go, she stopped and began to cry. 

January saw her, and said: "Child, why do you stand there 
shivering and crying, what is the matter.^" 

Dobrunka said, "My mother and sister have driven me from the 
house, and they said if I do not bring them some violets they will 
beat me to a jelly." 

January felt sorry for the girl, and he said: "Violets do not 
belong to me; perhaps March can help you." 

Near by sat March, and he turned and saw the girl was troubled 
and he pitied her. 

March stood up and waved his wand over the fire. The fire and 
the circle of old men disappeared. March and the girl were standing 
in a field and the air was fragrant with the breath of early Spring. 
March said, "Daughter look down at your feet, and gather as many 
violets as you wish!" 

As Dobrunka looked, all about her the field was purple with 
violets. She stooped down and gathered a great handful of them. 

When she came back to the house and entered the door, Katinka 
saw her, and said, "Yes, I knew you could bring them, you were just 
pretending that you could not." And, the perfume of the violets 
filled the whole house. 

Some daj's after Katinka came again to Dobrunka, and said: 

"Dobrunka, I want some strawberries, red and fresh from the 
fields." 

14 



THE T W E L V E M N T H S 




■ There sat twelve old men 



Dobriinka said, "Why sister, how strangely you talk. This 
is not the time for strawberries; it is mid-winter. But Katinka said: 
"Obey me, you said there were no violets the other day; you 
brought them, — go, bring me some strawberries or I will beat you to 
a jelly.'' 

With that she pushed her out of the door and the stepmother 
helped her bar the door. 

Dobrunka then turned toward the forest again. Snow was still 
on the ground. She walked along toward the mountain and saw 

15 



THE STORYTELLERS^ MAGAZINE 

again the fire burning in the distance. Soon she was standing where 
sat the twelve old men in a circle. 

January heard her footfall on the snow. Dobrunka stopped and 
began crying. January said to her, "Child, why did you come back, 
we gave you violets and still you are back again.^" 

Dobrunka said, "My mother and sister have driven me from my 
home, and they say if I do not bring some strawberries they will beat 
me to a jelly." 

January said: "I am sorry, but I cannot help you. Strawberries 
do not belong to me; perhaps May can help you." 

May was sitting across the circle. He looked at the girl standing 
there in trouble and he felt sorry for her. He stood up and waved 
his wand across the fire. The old men disappeared and the fire. 
Dobrunka found herself standing in a field. It was a perfect day in 
May. Above her head the sky was soft and blue; in every treetop 
sang the birds. May, the old man, stood by her and said: 

"Look child at the earth and see what you will find." 

Dobrunka looked, and all about in great bunches grew straw- 
berries, peeping like jewels from the green leaves. 

May said to her, "Help yourself." And stooping down she 
gathered her hands full and then ran back to the house. 

When she entered the door, her sister seized the berries and 
ate them all up. 

A few days after that, Katinka came again to Dobrunka and 
said: "Dobrunka, I want some apples, fresh and ripe; go to the forest 
and fine me some." 

Dobrunka said, "Why sister how strangely you talk, — this is 
not the time for apples; it is mid- winter." 

Katinka said, "Lazy girl, you said you could not find the 
violets, but you did. You said there were no strawberries, but you 
brought them; go, and get me some apples or I will beat you to a 

jt^iiy-" 

Whereupon she pushed her from the door and the stepmother 
helped her to bar the door behind her. 

Dobrunka turned again to the forest. She remembered where 
the old men lived on the mountainside and was soon standing near 
the circle. She crept along very quietly. She did not wish to ask 
the old men to help her again because they already had been so kind 
to her, but January saw her standing with bowed head and shivering 
in the cold. 

16 



T II E T W E L V E M O N T H S 

He said, "Child, child, why did you come back here? We sent 
you away the other day with your wants supplied." 

Then Dobrunka said: "My mother and sister have driven me 
from the house, they say if I do not bring them some apples they will 
beat me to a jelly." 

January said, "Apples do not belong to me; perhaps September 
can help you." 

On the opposite side of the circle sat September, and he saw 
the girl standing there, helpless. He felt sorry for her and standing 




" One day the handsomest youth in all the world cams dy " 



up, he waved his wand over the fire. The circle and the old men 
disappeared. They were standing in a gently rolling field. The 
air was soft; the crickets were chirping in the grass and there was 
in the sky a haze. All around here stood great apple trees, loaded 
with fruit, red and yellow. 

September said to the girl, "Help yourself." 

Dobrunka picked up two of the largest apples, and then fled 
back to the house. When her sister saw her, she seized the apples, 
ate one and gave the other to her mother. As soon as the apples 
were eaten, — she came to Dabronka, and said, "Why did you not 
bring more apples .f^" 

17 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZI N E 

Then Dobrunka told her about the old men and how they had 
helped her each time. 

"Then," said Katinka, "I know why you did not bring more, 
you ate them up on the way. Go back, and bring me more or I will 
beat you." 

Dobrunka said, "Please do not send me again in the cold," and 
she begged that she might stay in the house. 

Then Katinka said, "I will go myself; if you could get them I 
can get them from the old men." 

She left the house and walked through the forest, and soon came 
in sight of the fire where sat the twelve old men. When she came 
near to them, she said, "Hello there, old grey beards, I want some 
apples and want them quick!" 

January was not accustomed to such words. He stood up and 
waved his wand over the fire and the fire and the circle were gone. 

Katinka found herself in a great forest. The wind was wailing 
through the treetops, the snow was falling and it was bitter cold. 
Katinka did not come back to the house. Her mother waited for 
her and by and by she started out in search of her, But she, too, was 
lost in the storm that raged, and never came back. 

Dobrunka waited in the house. The night passed, and the next 
day and many days. By and by the snow melted. The birds and 
flowers of Spring came, but still the lost ones did not come back. 
Dobrunka had the house all alone. One day, the handsomest youth 
in all the world came by and met Dobrunka. They became frier ds, 
and afterwards they were married and lived happily forever there- 
after. 



The Storytellers' League, of the State Normal School, of Dillon, 
ISIontana, have decided for the present year to devote their attention to a 
line of work, which so far as we know, has not yet been attempted by any 
other League. They will investigate the part that the supernatural, espe- 
cially witchcraft, plays in literature, and Mill follow it not only through 
folk literature, but the following units: Goethe's Faust, Shakespeare's 
Midsummer Night's Dream, Macbeth, Konigs-kinder and Hansel and 
Gretel. The general theme will be broken from time to time by the intro- 
duction of stories suitable for a special session. At the last meeting in 
December the program will be given over to Christmas stories, tales and 
legends. Miss Florence Mayer is President of the League, 

18 



S T O R Y T E L L I N G AN 1) K 1) IT C A T I O N 

Story Telling and Education 

BY GEORGE EVERETT PARTRIDGE, Ph. I). 

THE recent revival of story telling raises many interesting 
questions, both practical and theoretical. Considered as a 
part of a larger movement, — an effort to control and utilize 
the powers concealed within the instincts and unconscious forces 
of the mind — story telling takes a place in a problem which we 
can hardly be mistaken in calling one of the most important 
of our day. We have tended to value, in education, only that 
which we can see and fully understand; but now, as we begin 
seriously to employ arts in the school, and in the arts to sub- 
ordinate knowledge to feeling, to use methods that yield no 
immediate or practical return, we demand an increasing faith 
in the powers of receptivity and inner response of the child, 
and we must learn more and more to detect, and to be satisfied 
with, unseen and remote effects. 

In the art-invasion of the school, which is one aspect of this 
movement toward a wider education, it is difficult to see how, 
in the near future, we can be carried too far. We have been in 
the habit of emphasizing so much the learning process, that 
we are in danger of preventing the free and experimental atti- 
tude tow ard these new interests that seems needed at the present 
time. We are likely to have too little, rather than too much, 
faith in the play motives, the aesthetic moods, and the sub- 
conscious powers. We shall still want the child to express, 
to dramatize, to be examined upon, everything he receives: 
to externalize every response, even in the most intimate regions 
of feeling. 

In calhng the influx of artistic elements and methods into 
the school one phase of the education of the unconscious and 
deeper powers, we have a significant practical view-point, and 

19 



THE STORYTELLERS^ MAGAZINE 

are at the same time in touch with new results in science. As a 
practical ideal, we must aim to educate all the individual, not 
merely thought and voluntary movement. We wish to reach 
the inherited mechanisms of the organism ; we wish to play upon 
all the potentialities of feeling and volition, and to utilize 
powers latent in the deposits of experience that the child has 
brought with him to the world. 

These new results in science give to the well-worn principle 
that we must educate all the powers of the child a new meaning, 
and at least three important advances in psychology, in recent 
years, combine to put solid ground under our feet for a practical 
aesthetics, and give us principles by which we can coordinate 
the artistic elements and methods of the school. 

The first of these advances is the genetic psychology that 
has arisen and flourished on the basis of Darwinian principles 
in biology, and which has shown the fundamental place of the 
feelings in education. The second is the new psycho-analysis, 
which, by showing the laws of the symbolic expression of hidden 
desires and feelings, has given us a new conception of the relation 
of art to life. The third new result is in the psychology of 
valuation, which has traced out, at least roughly^ the course of 
development of the sesthetic and ethical states of consciousness. 

New and incomplete and lacking in coordination as these 
principles are, they already yield us practical insights such as 
we have never been able to obtain from the older philosophies. 
We may confidently expect to see in time a solid science of the 
feelings, which will give us a "union of art and life" in a sound 
sestheticism in education: an sestheticism that will help 
to organize and control the fundamental feelings, and will 
overcome the superficial aloofness of our prevailing too formal 
and too detached art. This will be based upon the discovery 
that art, and the need of art, extend throughout all phases of 
human life; and that all true art must work in intimate union 
with practical affairs. 

20 



STORYTELLING AND EDIT CAT I ON 

Considerations, such as these, seem essential for any study 
of the place of story telling, or any other art, in education. 

II 

The story telling "situation" is an artistic situation. It 
falls under the category of the bemdiful, and is subject to all 
the general principles of aesthetics. Thus it stands in striking 
contrast with all formal methods of instruction, and all routine 
and unemotional learning. In such artistic situations the child 
is more fuUy present than in the formal school work, for he 
brings with him his deeper, unconscious nature. 

The nature of the story as an educational art is best shown 
by its place in primitive life. Here the function of the story is 
clearly practical. By it religion, and all beliefs, morals, cus- 
toms, and traditions are conveyed to the child. The folk- 
tales, the legends, the fairy-tales, the epics, and the myths of 
the world are not merely fanciful inventions of man; in a far 
more profound way than we yet fully understand, they express 
man's most urgent needs and desires. Primitive man began 
early to express, in his stories, by means of a varied symbolism, 
his own hopes and wishes, — sometimes, thereby, keeping them 
alive through hard conditions, and passing them on to new 
generations; sometimes obtaining for them a vicarious satis- 
faction. These racial stories affect our feelings deeply, simply 
because there is continuity in evolution: because the past still 
lives in the present: because these stories are the products of 
universal needs, and symbolize or represent them. The story 
is thus a language of the feelings; it is a means of communication 
between the past and the unconscious and undeveloped poten- 
tialities of the present. The story is a symbolic language: 
its scenes and words are often trivial, but underneath them 
runs a deeper meaning. Everyone who has told stories must 
have felt this. We all know that when we tell a good story to 

21 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

a child, the child is receiving from us indescribable meanings, 
which the story itself conveys, but does not really contain or 
express, — and this sense of free-masonry of emotional meaning 
is the greatest charm of the story. One who feels this does not 
need to point a moral to a tale; and one who feels the need of 
the moral does not really tell his story. 

Without knowing something about the nature of the aesthetic 
feelings and moods it is impossible to understand the scope 
of such an art as story telling. We are likely to think of aesthetic 
feeling as passive, or as merely "refining" in its effects: or, if 
inspiring, as mainly affecting the creative, artistic imagination. 
But this is not the case. All aesthetic feelings are intensely 
active. Because the responses are internal, — a play of forces 
within the organism — we are likely to overlook them altogether. 
In every aesthetic state, we have good reason to believe, there is 
a play of volitions, an active choosing, a drama of aroused and 
satisfied desire — definite, specific desire, which, though it may 
often be unconscious, if none the less real. And it is because 
of this drama of desire that aesthetic situations have meaning 
and value — educational value. 

We cannot at present know, — and as practical educators 
we do not need to know — ^precisely the mechanism or content 
of every emotional state; yet we can often see clearly some of 
the deeper meaning and effect of aesthetic valuations. We can 
see sometimes, in the child's interest in fairy-tales, for example, 
that the child is playing a part; that he is accepting for himself 
misfortunes for the sake of the good that issues from them ; that 
he is appreciating, in some half-conscious way, the nature of a 
world in which events are not separate and haphazard, but are 
connected through far-seeing purposes. The child is not 
merely pleased at the story; he reacts to it by taking attitudes: 
by accepting, rejecting, deciding; by desiring, and by receiving 
satisfaction. In such experiences the child is even acquiring 
religion, — and the standards and moods of later life are made 



S T O R Y T E Iv L I N G AND E D U CATION 

up of just such feelings as are conveyed so effectively through 
the medium of the artistic story. 

The story, then, is an important method in education. It 
is a very effective and natural devise for conveying the ideals 
and volitions of one generation to the mind of another, and of 
coordinating many individuals by means of the common pos- 
session of these ideals and purposes. We have yet to learn 
fully how far we can go by this and other kinds of artistry in 
teaching; but that the story should have a serious place in edu- 
cation, seems wholly certain. Just how large a place it should 
occupy is to be determined, in part, by experiment. Good 
story telling may be utilized in so many subjects of the curricu- 
lum, for so many purposes, and in so many departments of 
education, within and without the school; its artistic possi- 
bilities are so great; the present momentum of interest is so 
strong, and so well justified by science, that we may expect to 
see. a widespread use of the story as a method of education. 
We shall expect to see story telling become a part of the equip- 
ment of all teachers, and the story literature of the world 
become more and more accessible, and better adapted to the 
child. And it is likely that the professional story teller will 
again flourish among us, as in the days before books and schools 
robbed him of his art. 



The Story Tellers' League, of Nashville, Tenn., issues an attractive 
Year Book for the current year. Among the topics announced for the year 
is a Greek pageant, "The Fire Regained," to be given out of doors at the 
Parthenon, in Centennial Park. This pageant was written by Mr. Sidney 
Hirsch, a member of the Story Tellers' League, and dedicated to the League. 
A popular subscription of $10,000 has been made by the city for its produc- 
tion. Seats will be arranged for 20,000 people. The Schools will furnish 
800 young men and young women for the performance; a herd of sheep 
and a flock of doves enter into the pageant. It will be given five afternoons 
early in May. 

23 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Story Telling in Boston 

BY MARY W. CRONAN 

Official Story Teller for the Boston Public Libraries 

I REALLY felt most delighted at the thought of the new magazine and 
want to send an article, but can't seem to find time to write it. Perhaps 
it will answer if I just tell you what is being done in Boston Libraries and 
Settlements by Mr. Cronan and myself, and let you choose such items as 
seem of interest. 

The Library classes are held in the afternoon. On Saturday from three 
to four Mr. Cronan and I tell stories in the Central Library. On Monday 
I go to Brighton; Tuesday to Jamaica Plain; Wednesday to South Boston; 
Thursday the West End; Friday Shawmut Ave. Branch. All these are 
Branches of the Central Library. The ages of the children are from ten 
to fourteen. The attendance from one to two hundred. 

The first part of the hour is devoted to telling the story of some book 
which the children have not read and which would be a valuable book for 
them to know. As the boys greatly outnumber the girls, the book is chosen 
which is likely to appeal to them. I have told in "continued story" form 
each book lasting from four to six periods of story telling the following: 



The Talisman 

Oliver Twist 

Spenser's "Faerie Queen" 

Water Babies 

Robin Hood 

King Arthur and His Knights 

The Rhinegold 

Siegfried 

Treasure Island 



Captains Courageous 

Peter Pan 

The Bluebird 

Jean Valjean 

The Odyssey 

Finn and his Mighty Deeds 

The Christmas Carol 

Konigs Kinder, etc. 



The last twenty minutes of the hour is usually devoted to some story 
of fun or fancy — a fairy tale — or Brer' Rabbit's pranks. In the evening 
similar work is done in Social Settlements with groups of boys from twelve 
to fourteen years of age. At Denison House we have ninety-six boys of 
Syrian and Irish nationality. There are groups in the Ruggles Street 
Neighborhood House — the "South End Industrial School," Jamaica Plain 
Neighborhood House, South End House and Lincoln House. 

In the summer story telling groups are held on the roof gardens of the 
Settlement House or in the yard where we sit on the grass and tell stories 
in the twilight — often to groups of one hundred and fifty children. 

24 



STORY TELLIN G IN BOS T O N 



The accompanying newspaper dippings alxmt my work may be of 
interest : 

Introduces the Child to the Best Literature 

" I do not tell stories to amuse children, but to instruct them. The 
purpose is to introduce the child to the best literature and not to 
entertain him, although he is at the same time entertained. 

"Story telling bridges the gap between the child and the library 
and brings him into literature. It develops the child in every way and 
teaches him what is really worth his while to read. 

"It develops the imagination, trains his mind and he gets many 
moral lessons, although I never tell stories as a means of preaching to 
children. 

Develops the Child's Mind 

" Story telling means far more to children than many people realize. 
The love for stories is born in every child and it takes but a remarkably 
short time before almost every child becomes a really wonderful lis- 
tener. 

" It is interesting to observe how the mind of the child is developed. 
' At first, many can keep their attention on a story only a short time, 
but they soon learn the power of application and can listen breathlessly 
for an hour and then ask for another story, even though they know the 
time is up. After their attention has once been gained, children will 
listen to stories as long as the story teller will continue. 

Librarians Enthusiastic 

"After a year or more of story telling in the public libraries, I 
believe in the power of the story more than ever. Between the settle- 
ments and the hbraries, over 1,'200 children come to listen to me each 
week, and besides I have been conducting a normal class to teach 
young librarians how to tell stories themselves. 

"All the librarians appear to be enthusiastic over the story hour, 
and although it adds to their cares and confusion, they welcome me 
each week with a friendliness that is truly genuine. 

"But the real inspiration comes from the children themselves. 
They never seem to tire, and sometimes keep me for an hour and a 
quarter with 'A little more, please, just a few minutes. We want 
to know what became of Oliver,' or 'Didn't Siegfried come to life 
again?' 

25 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



The Stone Lion 

A Tibetan story, retold from the excellent collection of Captain O'Connor. Although a 
fairy-tale in form, it has the well marked purposive quality so characteristic of Eastern stories. 
Adapted from Folk-Tales from Tibet, by Captain W. P. O'Connor. 

This story was voted to be the best story told during two years to a class of younger 
children at Bancroft School, Worcester. Twenty-two children whispered their votes to the 
story teller. Ten chose The Stone Lion, while no other story received more than four votes. 

This story, by permission of authors and publishers, is taken from Story Telling in 
School and Home, by Emelyn Newcomb Partridge and George E. Partridge. Sturgis & 
Walton Company, New York. 

ONCE THERE WERE two brothers who Hved with their mother 
in a large house on a farm. Their father was dead. The 
older brother was elever and selfish; but the younger was kind 
and gentle. The older brother did not like the younger because he 
was honest, and never could get the best of a bargain; so one day 
he said to him: 

"You must go away. I cannot support you any longer." 

So the younger brother packed all his belongings, and went to 
bid his mother good-bye. When she heard what the older brother 
had done, she said: 

"I will go with you, my son. I will not live here any longer 
with so hard-hearted a man as your brother." 

The next morning the mother and the younger brother started 
out together. Toward night they came to a hut at the foot of a hill. 
It was empty except for an axe, which stood behind the door. But 
they managed to get their supper, and stayed in the hut all night. 

In the morning they saw that on the side of the hill near the 
hut was a great forest. The son took the axe, and went up on the 
hill side and chopped enough wood for a load to carry to the town on 
the other side of the hill. He easily sold it, and with a happy heart 
brought back food and some clothing to make them both comfortable. 

"Now, mother," he said, "I can earn enough to keep us both, and 
we shall be happy here together." 

Day after day he went out and cut the wood, and at night carried 
it to the village and sold it; and they always had plenty to eat and 
what they needed to make them happy and comfortable. 

One day the boy went further up the hill than he had ever gone 
before in search of better timber. As he climbed up the steep hillside, 
he suddenly came upon a lion carved from stone. 

26 



THE STONE L I f) N 



"O!" thought the boy, "this must be the guardian deity of this 
mountain. I will make him some offering tomorrow." 

That night he bought two candles, and carried them to the lion. 
He lighted them and put one on each side of the lion, praying that 
his own good fortune might continue. 

As he stood there, suddenly the lion opened his great stone 
mouth, and said: 

"What are you doing here.f*" 

The boy told him all the story of his hard-hearted brother, 
and how he and his mother had left home, and were living in the hut 
at the foot of the hill. 

When he had heard all of the story, the lion said: 

"If you will bring a bucket here tomorrow, and put it under my 
mouth, I will fill it with gold for you." 

The next day the boy brought the bucket and put it under the 
lion's mouth. 

"You must be very careful to tell me when it is nearly full," said 
the lion, "for if even one piece of gold should fall to the ground, great 
trouble would be in store for you." 

The boy was very careful to do exactly as the lion told him, 
and soon he was on his way home to his mother with a bucketful of 
gold. 

They were so rich now that they bought a great, beautiful farm, 
and went there to live. Everything the boy undertook seemed to 
prosper. He worked hard, and grew strong; and before many years 
had passed he was old enough to marry, and bring a bride to the home. 
But the mother still lived with them, and they were all very contented 
and happy. 

At last the hard-hearted brother heard of their prosperity. He 
too had married, and had a little son. So he took his wife and the 
little boy, and went to pay his younger brother a visit. It was not 
long before he had heard the whole story of their good fortune, and 
how the lion had given them all the gold. 

"I will try that, too," he said. 

So he took his wife and child and went to the very same hut 
his brother had lived in, and there they passed the night. 

The very next morning he started out with a bucket to visit 
the Stone Lion. 

When he had told the lion his errand, the lion said: 

"I will do that for you, but you must be very careful to tell me 

27 



T H p: s t o r y t i: l l e r s ' magazine 



when the bucket is nearly full; for even if one little piece of gold 
touches the ground, great misery will surely fall upon you." 

Now the elder brother was so greedy that he kept shaking the 
bucket to get the gold pieces closer together. And when the bucket 
was nearly full he did not tell the lion, as the younger brother had done, 
for he wanted all he could get. 

Suddenly one of the gold pieces fell upon the ground. 

"O," cried the lion, "a big piece of gold is stuck in my throat. 
Put your hand in and get it out. It is the largest piece of all." 

The greedy man thrust his hand at once into the lion's mouth — 
and the lion snapped his jaws together. 

And there the man stayed, for the Lion would not let him go. 
And the gold in the bucket turned into earth and stones. 

When night came, and the husband did not come home, the wife 
became anxious, and went out to search for him. At last she found 
him, with his arm held fast in the lion's mouth. He was tired, cold 
and hungry. She comforted him as best she could, and brought him 
some food. 

Every day now the wife must go with food for her husband. 
But there came a day when all the money was gone, and the baby was 
sick, and the poor woman herself was too ill to work. She went to 
her husband and said : 

"There is no more food for you, nor for us. We shall all have to 
die. O! if we had only not tried to get the gold." 

The lion was listening to all that was said, and he was so pleased 
at their misfortune that he began laughing at them. And as he laughed, 
he opened his mouth, and the greedy man quickly drew out his hand, 
before the lion had a chance to close his jaws again ! 

They were glad enough to get away from the place where they 
had had such ill luck, and so they went to the brother's house once 
more. The brother was sorry for them, and gave them enough money 
to buy a small place, and there the hard-hearted brother took his 
family and lived. 

The younger brother and his wife and his mother lived very 
happily in their beautiful home, but they always remembered the 
Stone Lion on the hillside, who gave them their good fortune. 



28 



THE O Y S I^ i: R AND IIS C L A I M ANTS 



The Oyster and Its Claimants 

(From Walter Thornbury's translation of Esop's Fables, made into verse by M. De La 
FonUiine. Fable CLXXII. Page 501— "La Fontiiine's Fables.") 

There is something so grand in this species of composition, that many of the Ancients 
have attributed the greater part of these fables to Socrates; selecting as their author that in- 
dividual amongst mortals who was most directly in communication with the gods. I am rather 
surprised that they have not maintained that these fables descended direct from heaven. . , , The 
fable is a gift which comes from the immortals; it if were the gift of man, he who gave it to us 
would deserve a temple. From Preface to La Fontaine's Fables. 

TWO travellers discovered on the beach 
An Oyster, carried thither by the sea. 
'Twas eyed with equal greediness by each; 

Then came the question whose was it to be. 
One, stooping down to pounce upon the prize, 

Was thrust away before his hand could snatch it. 
"Not quite so quickly," his companion cried; 

"If you've a claim here, Fve a claim to match it; 
The first that saw it has the better right 

To its possession; come, you can't deny it." 
"WVll," said his friend, "my orbs are pretty bright. 

And I, upon my life, was first to spy it." 
"You.^^ Not at all; or, if you did perceive it, 

"I smelt it long before it was in view; 
But here's a lawyer coming — let us leave it 

To him to arbitrate between the two." 
The lawyer listens with a stolid face, 

Arrives at his decision in a minute; 
And, as the shortest way to end the case. 

Opens the shell and eats the fish within it. 
The rivals look upon him with dismay: — 

"This Court," says he, "awards you each a shell; 
You've neither of you any costs to pay, 

And so be happy. Go in peace. Farewell!" 

How often, when causes to trial are brought. 
Does the lawyer get pelf and his client get nought! 
The former will pocket his fees with a sneer, 
While the latter sneaks off with a flea in his ear. 



THE storytp:llers' magazine 

The Psycho-therapeutic Value of 
Story Telling 

FRANCES E. FOOTE 

THE Story telling Movement is growing with such gigantic strides that 
a magazine which will keep the Missionaries in this movement in touch 
with one another seems most desirable, if not absolutely necessary. 

Many writers have voiced many opinions as to the benefits to be de- 
rived from the exercise of the Art of Story telling, but there is one which 
I have never seen in black and white, about which I feel impelled to write. 
It is the Psycho-Therapeutic value of Story telling. 

Pain is a real thing, and will hold us in his clutches and claim all our 
attention if allowed to do so. 

Sorrow is absorbing, and will bow our heads and break our spirits if 
unhindered. 

Upon what, then, may we concentrate our attention, that pain may 
grow weary of pressing his claim. f* 

With what may we so absorb our minds tnat sorrow will fade away.^* 

One of the fundamental principles of Story telling is that the oral 
interpreter of Literature, must so vividly see the pictures described in the 
story, that he will cause his hearers to feel that they, too, see. 

He must feel the impulses and emotions of the characters in the story 
so truly that the hearts of his hearers will thrill with the same feeling. 

Since this is true, that the mind must be absorbed in the distant 
scenes of Story Land, pain in due course of time must grow tired of urging 
his claim and will ultimately depart. 

The emotions dominant in stories which we tell are altruistic for the 
most part. We prefer to dwell upon themes in which evil is overcome by 
good; those in which sorrow flees away and joy comes with the morning. 

Isn't it true that the person who, day after day, creates these altru- 
istic emotions in the hearts of his hearers will find his sorrow, deep-seated 
though it may be, growing dimmer day by day as he brightens the lives of 
his hearers? 

There are many cases which I could give you to prove my point. 
One, of a little child with spinal trouble, who was treated by a great sur- 
geon. He would call upon her two or three days out of the week and each 
time tell her a story. He required her, meanwhile, to make up similar 

30 



THE PSYCHO-THERAPEUTIC VALUE OF STORY TELLING 

stoTies. For instance, he would tell her the story of "Little Green Cap," 
Then he would say, "Now, by Tuesday I want you to have a story ready 
for me. It must be about a poor little girl, a princess and a magic ring." 
So absorbed did the child become in such work that the pain in the poor 
little back grew less and less insistent until she ceased to be an invalid 
and was able to attend school. She was one of the happiest children I 
ever knew. She said she didn't mind the pain any more, she had such 
lovely things to think about. 

Another was the case of a young woman upon whom sorrow laid a 
heavy hand. Prostrated by grief, she lay for several days in a darkened 
room. Then rousing herself she went to a hospital and secured permission 
from the superintendent to visit daily the friendless patients who seemed 
lonely. For months she reported daily to the superintendent, was given 
directions as to which patients to visit, and for three hours she would go 
from one to the other telling humorous stories. The morning hours she 
spent hunting for artistic, mirth-provoking stories and her afternoons in 
bringing smiles to sad faces. The result was inevitable. People everywhere 
welcomed her as a ray of sunshine. 

One more case — that of a young woman who, while making a brave 
struggle to recover from one serious operation, suddenly found herself 
facing another even more serious. With nerves racked by persistent pain, 
courage well nigh gone, pursued by that dread foe insomnia, she turned to 
her one accomplishment. Story telling. Though able to sit up but a few hours 
at a time, she held large audiences in many cities two or three times a week, 
until she once more went under the knife. Then within two months she 
was on the platform again, bringing herself back to health by compelling 
her mind to dwell in Storyland. I knew all the particulars of this case, 
the physical torture she endured for two years, the struggle she made to 
live, and knowing what I do, forces me to believe that if Story telling did 
not save her life, it certainly saved her reason. 

It is a law of life that the only thing which we may always keep, is the 
thing we give. If then, the prime function of Story telling is the giving of 
Joy, then Joy is the thing which the Story teller may have. 

To those who "travail and are heavy laden" I commend the Art of 
Story telling. 



31 



THE STORYTELL ERS' MAGAZINE 

Story Telling for Mothers 

INTERESTING accounts were recently published in the Herald, Sun and 
other New York papers of Miss Georgene Faulkner's story telling for 
mothers and children at the Waldorf-Astoria, New York and St. Mary's 
Parish House, Brooklyn. 

The story telling at the Waldorf-Astoria was given under the auspices 
of Mrs. William Rogers Chapman, President of the Rubenstein Musical 
Club, to an audience of fourteen hundred, of which about seven hundred 
were children. 

Miss Faulkner, in Mother Goose attire, told the children Mother 
Goose stories, assisted by singers who presented ballads to accompany the 
stories. Much to the amusement of the children. Miss Faulkner would 
sometimes change the text of the Mother Goose rhymes, and the children 
were not backward about crying out corrections of these errors. Miss 
Faulkner would say: 

"Jack and Jill went up the hill. 

Like a dutiful son and daughter; 
Now Jack is sick, and Jill is ill. 
They did not boil the water." 

This would be greeted by a chorus of, "No, No, that isn't the way it 
goes!" and other exclamations. 

Later, Miss Faulkner, in German costume, told the fairy story of 
"Hansel and Gretel." 

The "Gingerbread Man," otherwise known as "Johnny Cake" and 
"The Wee Bunnock," gave more pleasure to the children than any other 
story, perhaps because it was accompanied by Gingerbread Men in neat 
boxes, which were given to the children as souvenirs of the occasion. 

Through the courtesy of Mrs. Chapman and with the assistance of 
Mrs. Arthur Elliot Fish, one hundred crippled children, from the Industrial 
School for Crippled Children, participated in the delights of the "Mother 
Goose" matinee. 

The story telling at St. Mary's Parish House, was arranged primarily 
for mothers, under the auspices of Miss Mabel McKinney, Superintendent 
of the Kindergartens in the Borough of Brooklyn. 

"What kind of a story," said Miss Faulkner, "should the mother tell 
to her children? Any good interesting story will lend itself to the spoken 
narrative. Many mothers are so careless about what their children read 

32 



STORY TELLING FOR I\r O T H E R S 



—thinking that ahnost any })o()k which they get from the library will 
answer the need. This is a great mistake. If tlie mother will only take 
care to direct the young mind into the right channels at the impressionable 
period she would lay a firm foundation on which to build the future life 
of the child. Not only are many books from Public Libraries pernicious, 
but from the Sunday-School Libraries as well. Many mothers make a prac- 
tice of filling the minds of their little children with a hodge-podge of infor- 
mation, superstition, fear and other ideas which have had a bad effect 
upon the children's mind. They think it makes little difference what they 
put into the child's thought so long as it is a story. In reality it makes 
all the difference in the world. 

"With the great storehouse of classical and folk-lore stories within easy 
reach; stories of brave deeds well done; of self-sacrifice; of love and duty 
and other high ideals, the mind of the child is easily guided into channels 
of right thinking, and if mothers only realized it more fully, it is in their 
power through the medium of these stories to fill the little mind with ideals, 
which will have a most important bearing through life in the development 
of character. Through the simple art of story telling the mother possesses 
the key to the hidden nature of the child if she could only be made to 
appreciate and understand the value of the story influence." 



The Story Tellers' League at the Alabama Girls' Technical Institute, 
Montevallo, is divided into chapters: The Poe Chapter; the Uncle Remus 
Chapter, and the Wyche Chapter. The Poe Chapter deals with the Edgar 
Allen Poe stories, Kipling, Hawthorne, and Irving, while the Uncle Remus 
Chapter deals with the Arabian Nights, Robin Hood, Uncle Remus, Folk 
and Fairy Tales. The Wyche Chajiter deals with the Stories of King Arthur; 
the Opera stories — Magic Flute, Hansel and Gretel; the Beowulf Story, 
and Stories of Knighthood by J. H. Cox. The Chapters meet once a week 
separately, throughout the school year, and occasionally they have a joint 
meeting. The programme of the League as well as other societies in the 
school are published by the Institute, and may be had for the asking. 
The Story Tellers' League, with its three chapters, has a combined member- 
ship of one hundred and twenty-five, making it one of the strongest organi- 
zations in the school. One Chapter of the League devotes time to the 
playing of folk games at the recreation hour, in the afternoon, on the law^n. 

33 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

THE BEOWULF CLUB OF WEST VIRGINIA UNIVERSITY 

By John Harrington Cox 

The above-named organization is the story telling club of the Uni- 
versity. Its formation grew out of the enthusiasm of four young women 
who were studying the great Anglo-Saxon epic, of course, in the original. 
Their eagerness to master the famous tale, to be able to retell it with at 
least somewhat of its original vigor, picturesqueness, and fascination, was 
worthy of a permanent record. Their zeal was to make the story something 
more than a mere name. They thought that this priceless bit of literary 
heritage should be gotten off the printed page and down into the hearts 
of people far and wide throughout our State. 

As the idea developed its possibilities began to be more fully realized. 
Here was an opportunity of enlisting the sympathies of some of the bright- 
est young men and young women of the University, in the great stories of 
the world; stories of all ages and all countries; prose and verse, ranging 
from the fairy tale to the Iliad. And, moreover, it was thought that the 
interest would not be a passing one, but permanent. The necessity of 
mastering the outlines of a story, the practice in recreating it by memory 
and imagination, the vivifying of it through the emotions and the person- 
ality of the teller, was believed to furnish an exercise in many ways more 
pleasurable and profitable than those obtained in the usual recitation. 

The result more than fulfilled all expectations. The club was formed 
on the Twenty-ninth of February, Nineteen hundred and eight. Since that 
time it has not missed a single meeting. The membership averages about 
twelve from year to year. Most of these on leaving the University become 
teachers and carry the work into their schools, teachers' institutes, and 
public entertainments. Several times the club has been invited to give a 
public performance. Invitations to its meetings are eagerly welcomed and 
the young people who tell the stories never lack for an appreciative audience. 



Detroit, Michigan, has recently organized a Story Tellers' League. 
Miss Mary Conover is President, and Miss Alice M. Alexander, Secretary. 
The first program is devoted to Irish stories; the second evening Folk 
stories. Hero tales for another meeting, with Bible and Animal stories to 
make up the programs for two meetings. The League meets at the College 
Club rooms, and has a membership of thirty. 

34 



HOW TO ORGANIZE A STORY TELLERS' LEAGUE 



HOW TO ORGANIZE A STORY TELLERS' LEAGUE 

"I have just read an article in the March number of The World's Work, 
on the Story Tellers' League movement, have heard of the Story Tellers' 
League, or read a cha})ter in Mr. Wyche's book, 'Some Good Stories and 
How to Tell Them,' on the Story Tellers' League, and should like to organize 
such a league in my community. How shall I go about it?" 

This is a question that comes almost every day to some officer of the 
Story Tellers' League. 

The method of procedure in organizing a Story Tellers' League is a 
very simple one. The first step is to call a meeting of as many prospective 
members as can be gotten together. A chairman and secretary pro tern 
should then be elected and the meeting called to order. The organizer 
should then state the purpose of the meeting, ask for the enrollment of 
the names and addresses of those who wish to join and have these recorded 
by the secretary. 

The next step is the nomination and election of permanent officers, 
usually a President, First Vice-President, Second Vice-President, Record- 
ing Secretary, Corresponding Secretary and Treasurer. Upon the election 
of these officers, the chairman and secretary pro tern resign in favor of 
the elected officers, and the League is then duly organized for business. 

The adoption of the Constitution and By-Laws is next in order. The 
Constitution deals with the name, object, membership, officers, etc., of 
the League; while the By-Laws provide for the dates of meetings, dues, 
time and mode of the election of officers, and such other rules and regula- 
tions for the conduct of the League as may be deemed desirable. An 
Executive Committee may then be appointed to look after the general 
business of the League, such as the arrangement of programmes at the 
meetings; the planning of entertainments and special exercises, and various 
other matters of this nature. The officers of the League are usually ex 
officio members of the Executive Committee. 

The League when organized should be reported to the President of 
the National Story Tellers' League, with the name and address of its 
President and Secretary, so that it may be enrolled with similar Leagues 
throughout the United States. 

Some leagues issue Year-books which may be had upon application 
to the Secretary. The National League will shortly issue a year-book 
giving general information in regard to the story telling movement, with 
list of the League's suggestive programmes. 

35 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



WHAT THE LEAGUES ARE DOING 

The National Playground and Recreation Association of America will 
hold its next annual meeting at Richmond, Virginia, May 6th to 10th. 

Miss Anna Tyler of the New York Public Library, recently spoke to 
the Public School Kindergarten Association on the subject of Story Telling 
and Children's Books. The New York Library has thirty-eight branches, 
and Miss Tyler has charge of the story -telling work in these branches. 

Miss Tyler explained how illuminating it was to watch the little ones' 
use of books, and how the child was introduced to the right book by seeing 
pictures in the book and hearing a story told from the book. 

The National Story Tellers' League will hold a conference with mem- 
bers and representatives of all local Leagues this Summer, at the following 
places: July 19th, at Knoxville, Tenn., in connection with the Summer 
School of the South. At Chautauqua, N. Y., August 16th, in connection 
with the Chautauqua Institute. At Parkersburg, West Virginia, June 21st, 
in connection with the State Teachers' Association of West Virginia. 

The Story Tellers' League of Philadelphia, a branch of the National 
League, has for its President, Mr. F. A. Child, Professor of Oral Literature 
in the University of Pennsylvania. The meeting of March 12tli was called 
"Indian Day." Primitive tales of Alaskan Indian life, inspired by legends 
on the Totem Pole, gives one an idea of the subject of the day. Mr. L. V. 
Shortridge, University of Pennsylvania, dressed in native costume told the 
stories. He showed the Alaskan territory, with its totem poles, putting 
his audience in touch with actual conditions from which these folk tales 
grew. At this meeting teachers, story tellers and leaders of groups of 
children were invited to bring children with them. Mr. Robert Staton 
furnished Indian Song. 

Philadelphia has one of the largest and most successful Leagues. Its 
membership numbers something like one hundred people, and it has created 
a great deal of interest in the city among various classes of teachers and 
educators as well as lovers of literature. 

36 



EDITORIAL 



In entering the arena of Jonrnalism The Storytellers' 
Magazine invites the support of all who love literature and 
youth. There are many magazines today covering almost every 
field of activity, but not one devoted to the art of story telling. 

While it is true that most of the magazines publish stories, 
few of them deal with the educational aspect of these stories — 
their most important relation. 

Storj^ telling in the schools; at the home; on the playground; 
in the Sunday' schools; the children's library rooms of the Pub- 
lic Library, and among social organizations has become so 
popular and aroused such widespread interest throughout the 
land that some medium of communication which wdll represent 
and unify these interests — has become almost a necessity. 

The Storytellers' Magazine is founded upon a definite 
purpose. It enters the field in the hope that it w^ill merit the 
support of a large number of general readers as well as teachers, 
parents and all who are interested in the uplifting of the rising 
generation. It goes forth as a missionary to acquaint its 
audience as far as it can with the vital principles that underlie 
the whole movement of story telling. It, therefore, invites the 
co-operation of all who believe in the story telling idea, in the 
hope that great good may come through such a union of 
interests. 

The Editor of the Magazine has devoted many years to 
the work of story telling, and he earnestly hopes that through 
the columns of the Magazine greater opportunity may be 
afforded for direction and organization, and thus make more 
permanent the whole story telling movement. 

There is a growing belief that in arranging the curriculum 
of studies for the young the rights and interests of the child 

37 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

have received but scant consideration. Mere drudgery lias been 
translated to mean development while hard labor with little 
thought to the tendencies and attributes of the individual child 
has been accepted as education. 

The Storytellers' Magazine offers itself as a champion 
of the rights of the child in education, and it hopes with the co- 
operation of those who know and believe in the efficacy of the 
story as a pleasing and effective instrument of education to 
battle bravely for the rights and liberties of the child, who has 
been aptly termed "the last serf of civilization." 



Elsewhere in this issue will be found an "Announcement" 
setting forth in some detail the aims and ideals of the Story- 
tellers' Magazine. 

The chief aim of this magazine is to serve the great cause of 
story telling in a manner that will best satisfy the needs of 
the greatest nujnber of those interested in the movement. 

How shall this be accomplished.'^ The answer to this ques- 
tion is Co-opcratio7i. 

The first issue of a magazine is something of an experiment. 
Its make-up is open to criticism and discussion. Its friends can 
do it no greater service than to disclose its shortcomings and 
point out the road to improvement. 

Criticism is usually divided into two schools, one construc- 
tive, the other destructive; or better, let us say into friendly 
or unfriendly criticism. 

While we shall endeavor to turn all unfriendly comment 
into constructive channels, we shall hope far more to profit by 
the sympathetic assistance and helpful advice of friends and 
well-wishers. 

The latch string is out to all, but a double welcome is assured 
to those who "Lend a Hand." 

38 



THE MOTHER— THE C HI LD -THE STORY 
THE MOTHER— THE CHILD— THE STORY 

Extract from a Report of Committee on Story Telling to the Montessori Class, University of 

\ irginia Summer School 

SINCE ALL RACES in all epochs have used oral stories both as a 
means of education and entertainment, and since much of the culture 
and civilization that our ancestors have bequeathed to us has come down 
to us in the form of story literature, and since the children of all races 
and in all times have said, "Tell me a story," we believe it is funda- 
mental in the child's life and education. 

We believe that the mother, who instinctively hums lullabys and sings 
Mother Goose Rhymes to the child is cultivating the child's sense of rhythm, 
touching its feelings, and speaking to it through vocal language — voice 
modulation — which precedes verbal language; that the mother who sings 
"Hush you bybaby in the tree tops, 
When the wind blows the cradle will rock," etc., 
and other Mother Goose jingles, has already begun her story telling. 

That the story, the most universally used medium for conveying truth 
and especially the told story that comes through the sensuous beauty of 
speech, should be continued throughout the child's education. 

We believe that when a child attributes life to its doll, makes up strange 
and unreal stories, that it does so in obedience to a deep psychic necessity, — 
that of developing the imagination, and that as a child climbs a tree or 
ladder and in doing so develops his body and bodily senses, so he must 
have for the development of his imagination the clear, bold, mental picture 
whether it be in fairy and folk stories or the high daring of some noble 
hero in epic literature or history. 

We believe that the development of the imagination should go hand in 
hand with the sense training, modified by local, ethnic, and individual 
needs, and that children as well as adults must have heroes to admire and 
worship and ideals to inspire; that th« idea of God can be represented only 
through the imagination and that to deny the child stories of gods and 
supernatural beings would be to bring him up without religious training. 
That the story that delights the child has psycho-therapeutic value and 
whether it be fact or fiction it is true in a higher sense, ministering to the 
spiritual needs of the child, and therefore valuable in education. 

We believe that it is the most inalienable right of all children to hear 
stories told from the great story books of the world; that wise selections 
of stories should be made not only from the literature and history of 
Europe and America, but from Japan, China, Russia, and India, so that 
we may develop in the young people a feeling of a world brotherhood. 

39 



THESTORYTE LLE RS' MAGAZINE 

THE GREAT EPICS 

The following suggestive outline of a "STORY HOUR CYCLE," 
arranged by the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, is re-published as an excel- 
lent example of systematic classification. 

Such study applied to any of the great epics will not only discover to 
the story teller a great treasure house of stories, but will be helpful in hold- 
ing them together in sequential relation. 

STORIES FROM THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 

THE SIEGE OF TROY 
Story I. The Apple of Discord 

1. The Founding of Troy 4. Tlie Ai)ple of Discord 

2. Story of Paris and (Enone 5. The Judgment of Paris 

3. Marriage of Peleus and Tlietis 

Story 11. The League Against Troy 

1. The Athletic Games in Troy 4. Story of Helen and the Pledge of the Greek 

2. Discovery of the Parentage of Paris Princes 

3. Embassy to Greece 5. Abduction of Helen 

6. League against Ti i^._, 
Story IH. The Beginning of the Trojan War 

1. The Stratagem of I'lysses 5. The Sacrifice of Iphigenia 

2. The Quest for Achilles 6. The Heroism of Protesilaus 

3. The Assembling of the Greeks 7. Beginning of the AYar 

4. The Omen of the Snake and the Birds 

Story IV. The Qitarrel of the Chiefs 

1. The Wrath of Apollo 5. Assembly of the Greeks 

2. How Agamemnon Wronged iVchilles 6. The Counsel of Ulysses 

3. The Revenge of Achilles 7. Preparation for the Battle 

4. The Dream of Agamemnon 

Story V. The Duel of Paris and Menelaus 

1. The Challenge of Paris 3. The Council of the Gods 

2. The Combat 4. The Broken Covenant 

Story VI. The Combat of Hector and Ajax 

1 . The Message of Hector 4. The Casting of the Lots 

2. The Parting of Hector and Andromache 5. The Combat 

3. The Challenge C. The Truce 

Story VII. The Battle of the Plain 

1. The Command of Zeus to the Gods 4. The Council of the Greeks 

2. The Battle 5. The Embassy to Achilles 

3. The Speech of Hector 6. The Answer of Achilles 

Story VIII. The Deeds and Death of Patroclus 
L The Battle at the Ships 4. The Death of Patroclus 

2. The Request of Patroclus 5. The Grief of Achilles 

3. The Myrmidons March forth to Battle. C. How Achilles ended the Battle 

Story IX. The Exploits of Achilles 

1. The Making of the Armor for Achilles 4. The Battle of the Gods 

2. The End of the Strife with Agamemnon 5. Achilles' Pursuit of the False Agenor 

3. The Battle at the River 

Story X. The Slaying of Hector 

1. The Pursuit of Hector by Achilles 5. The Funeral of Patroclus 

2. The Combat 6. The Funeral Games of the Greeks 

3. Death of Hector 7. The Ransoming of Hector 

4. Grief of Andromache 40 



STORY HOUR C Y C L K 



S'i'ouY XI. TiiK Fai,l or Troy' 

1. Tlie Fate of Achilles 4. Stratagem of l-lysses 

2. The Death of Paris 5. The Fate of Laocoon 

3. Capture of the Palladium. 6. Capture of Troy 

THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES 
Story XII. Adventures of Ulysses with the Lotus-eaters and the Cyclops 

1. Adventure with the ("iconians 4. In the Cave of the Cyclops 

2. The Lotus-eaters .'5. The Blinding of Polyphemus 

3. The Land of the Cyclops C. Escape of Ulysses and liis Companions 

Story XIII. The Kingdom of the Winds and the Hf)usE of Circe 

1. The Gift of ^Eolus 4. Adventure with the Laestrygones 

2. The Loosing of the Winds 5. The Wiles of Circe 

3. Return to the Isle of /Eolus 

Story XIV. The Visit to the "Land of the Shades" 

1. The Offering for the Dead 4. The Judging of the Dead 

2. The W^arning of Tiresias the Seer 5. Return to Circe's Isle. 

3. How Ulysses Conversed with his Mother 

and with Achilles and other Heroes 
Story XV. The Song of the Sirens, Scylla and Charybdis and the Oxen of the Sun 

1. Song of the Sirens 4. The Slaying of the Sacred Kine 

2. Escape from Scylla and Charybdis 5. The Wrath of Hyperion 

3. Arrival at the Island of the Sun 6. The Shipwreck 

Story XVI. The Island of Calypso and the Shipwreck on the Coast of Ph^eacia 

1. The Years on Calypso's Isle 5. Departure of Ulysses 

2. Minerva seeks aid for Ulysses from Jupiter 0. The Tempest 

3. Mercury is sent with a Message to Calyj)so 7. Ulysses Cast on the Coast of Phseacia 

4. Making of the Raft 

Story XVII. The Princess Nausic.aa 

1. The Request of Nausicaa 5. The Festival 

2. The Games of the Maidens fi. Return to Ithaca 

3. Discovery of IHysses 7. I'lysses left asleep in his Native Shore 

4. How Ulysses was Received in the Palace of 8. The Ship of the Phreacians changed to a 

Aloinous Rock 

Story XVIII. The Adventures of Telemachus 

1. The Suitors of Penelope 0. Journey to Pylos and Sparta 

2. Penelope's Web 7. Telemachus warned by Minerva to return 

3. Visit of Minerva to Telemachus to Ithaca 

4. Assembly of the Men of Ithaca 8. Conspiracy of the Suitors 

5. Departure of Telemachus in rjuest of I'lys- 9. F^scape of Telemachus 

ses 

Story XIX. The Battle of the Beggars 

1. Awaking of Ulysses 5. Eumreus conducts Ulysses to his Palace 

2. Transformation into an Old Man G. The Dog Argus 

3. Meeting with F^nmanis 7. The Beggars' Quarrel 

4. Arrival of Telemachus 8. The F^nd of the Feast 

Story XX. The Triumph of I'lysses 

1. Removal of the Weapons from the Hall 5. The Trial of the Bow 

2. Interview with Penelope 6. Death of the Suitors 
The Scar of the Boar's Tooth 7. Recognition of I'ljsses by Penelope 



4. The Last Banquet of the Suitors 



41 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



SOME RECENT BOOKS 

"Story Telling in School and Home." A Study in Educational ^Esthetics. By Emelyn 

Newcomb Partridge and George Everett Partridge, Ph.D. Publishers, Sturgis & Walton 

Co., New York. Price, $1.25 net. 

This is the fifth book that has appeared on story telling in the past half a dozen years. 
The authors have presented the psychological foundation and the "esthetic value of story telling 
in a most elaborate and convincing way. It is the first book that has been written by a psychol- 
ogist, on the subject of story telling, and Dr. Partridge's handling of the delicate, subtle, psychic 
forces that enter into literature and story telling is masterful; while Mrs. Partridge, with her 
practical experience as a story teller, contributes as much to the art as applied and exemplified 
in actual work of facing an audience of young people. 

The study of the child on one hand and its fundamental needs, and the survey and analysis 
of sources from which we can draw material, — myth, fable, folklo.e, epic, and history on the 
other, is of immense value to all story tellers and all who teach young people even up to college 
entrance. 

Part II of the book contains a dozen retold stories that have been put into shape by the 
oral telling, and are valuable both because of the form and their intrinsic worth. The book 
contains a number of illustrations, which add to its attractiveness, along with a bibliography 
and suggestions for reading. We cannot praise the book too highly. It is an inspiring book to 
read and a permanent contribution to the literature of story telling. 

Some Great Stories and How to Tell Them. By Richard Thomas Wyche. Price $1.00. 

Newson & Company, New York. 

"Story tellers were the first teachers," says Mr. Wyche in his chapter on "The Origin of 
Story telling." 

In an interesting way he throws light on what stories shall be told, the use of the story 
in the classroom and in formal work, the story in the Sunday-school, the library, the playground, 
and the social circle. 

The author also discusses the fundamental needs of the child, the psychological principles 
involved, and the spiritual equipment needed in story telling. 

For purposes of illustration the author uses "The Story of Beowulf," "The Coming of 
Arthur," and other "Great Stories." 

Games for the Playground, Home, School, and Gymnasium. By Jessie H. Bancroft. Price, 

$1.50 net. The Macmillan Company, New York. 

Miss Bancroft's book of games is a volume of over four hundred and sixty pages, with 
twenty-three illustrations. It contains, we should say, over two thousand games classified for 
Elementary schools from the first to the eighth year, for High schools, for playgrounds, for 
gymnasiums, for boys' and girls" summer camps, for house parties and country clubs, for child- 
ren's parties, and for the seashore. An excellent system of classification makes it possible to 
classify the games in many different ways, and thus easily find those suited to one's needs. 

As story telling and playing games are blood relations on the playground, this book is to 
be cordially commended as an interesting and valuable contribution to the Cause. 

The Normal Child and Primary Education. By Arnold L. Gesell, Ph.D., and Beatrice 
Chandler Gesell, Ed.B. Price, $1.25. Ginn & Company, New York. 
This work, the authors tell us, is chiefly the result of contact with eager minds of young 

women who were preparing to teach young children. 

It will interest story tellers mainly because of its extensive analysis and discussion of the 

child in the educational relation. 

42 



SOME RECENT BOOKS 



"To achieve re.sulls in lilcnitiire," it is stated, "the cliildren must have something more 
than a good story: they must have a good story teller — one with quiek sympathies and an 
intuitive knowledge of lier group; one who loves the old stories, who feels the pulse of humanity 
throbbing through them all; whose voice is clear, flexible, interpretative; whose language is 
simple, direct, pictorial; who enters into a dramatic situation; who has a keen sense of humor, 
who is willing to sow the seed and let it develop in its own good time." "The Normal Child" 
is a most helpful, illuminating, and instructive book. 

The Children's Reading. By Frances Jenkins Olcott. Price, $1.25 net. Houghton 

MifHin Co., Boston. 

Miss Olcott has given us a valuable book on children's readings. She speaks as an 
authority from her many years' experience as a librarian; therein is the chief value of her 
book. She knows the names and authors of many of the best books for young people, and 
gives many valuable lists of books. The very fact that she has had to deal with so many 
books from without as a librarian, has probably prevented her knowing so well the inside of 
the book, — seeing and living with its imagery, communing with its spirit and breathing its 
atmosphere until it gives up its deepest meaning. Any treatment of a story that helps one to 
visualize, to re-create, to breathe its atmosphere and live its spirit, ought to be valuable; the 
letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. However, her quotations from authors who have done 
that are many and valuable. The one on Homer's Iliad, page 103, is especially good; but she 
barely mentions the Odyssey, the more interesting story to the young people. The book is 
conservative rather than original and creative. 

Aldine First Language Book. For Grades Three and Four. By Catherine T. Bryce and 

Frank E. Spaulding. Price 48 cents. 
A Manual for Teachers. To accompany Aldlne First Language Book. Price 60 cents. 
Newson & Company, New York. 

These two books, the Manual and the Pupil's book accompanying it, the authors tell us have 
grown out of many years' experiment in teaching "language " so called. 

The work which the child is called upon to accomplish is, throughout the entire book, based 
on fables, myths, legends, stories of all kind, rhymes and poems, the delight of childhood, all of 
which are fully within the range of the child's understanding and appreciation. The varieties 
of ways in which these materials are presented arouses the keen interest of the children, stimu- 
lates their thought, and quickens their whole mental life. They discuss freely, they dramatize, 
they reproduce orally and in writing, the work over into new forms, they live and love the 
contents of stories and poems. No one can read this pupil's book without becoming impressed 
with the tremendous value of story telling as a direct instrument of education. The introduction 
of a comprehensive "Teacher's Manual" into the class-room, explaining the work to the teacher 
step by step, seems to be a new and most serviceable idea. 

Stories of Long Ago in the Philippines. By Dudley Odell McGovney, A.M. Price forty 

cents. World Book Company, Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York. 
The Stort Readers' Primer. By May Langdon White. Price thirty-six cents. World Book 

Company, Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York. 
These little stories of ancient days in the Philippines contain such interesting selections as 
"The Sea and the Sky," "The Bird and the Bamboo," "The Good and the Evil Spirits," 
" Naming the Islands," and " Manila Long Ago." These stories have a certain historic value and 
will be read with interest by children in the United States 

The Story Readers' Primer tells of the every day experiences of two happy, healthy children, 
and makes effective use of the classic stories and poems. 

43 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



B I B L I () C; 11 A P H Y 

In this list of books, Column I gives the price up(jn receipt 
of which the book named will be sent post-paid. Cohunn II 
gives the price upon receipt of which the book named will be 
sent post-paid together with The Storytellers' Magazine for one 
year. Remittances may safely be made by Money or Express 
Order or by draft on New York. All communications should 
be sent to The Storytellers' Magazine, 27 West 23d Street, 
New York, giving the name of the book wanted; the date at 
which the subscription to The Storytellers' Magazine should 
begin, and the name and full post-office address of the sender. 

I. Story Telling 

Column I Column II 

Price at which Book Price of Boul< and 

will be sent The Storytellers' 

post-pa.d Magazine for 

Bryant, Sara Cone. — How to Tell Stories ""' ^'''' 

to Children. $1.00 ''t.a:^,^7^::^li^' $1-65 

Stories to Tell Children. 1.00 " 1.65 

Houghton, Louise. - — Telling Bible Stories 1.25 " 1.85 

Keyes. — Stories and Story -Telling. 1.25 " 1.85 

Lyman, Edna. — Story-Telling: What to 

Tell and How to Tell It 0.75 " 1.55 
Partridge, E. N. & G. P. — Story-Telling 

in School and Home. 1.25 " 1.75 
Wyche, R. T. — Some Great Stories and 

How to Tell Them. 1 .00 1.55 

II. Bible Stories 

BuNYAN. — Pilgrim's Progress. " 1.00 " 1.65 

Chisholm. — Stories from The Old Testa- 
ment. 0.50 " 1.30 

Church. — Story of the Last Days of Jeru- 
salem. 1.25 " 1.85 

Hodges. — Saints and Heroes. 1.35 " 1.95 

Kelman. — Stories from the Life of Christ. 0.50 " 1.30 

44 



15 I 1? L T O G R A PHY 



Column I Column II 

Pendleton. — In Assyrian Tents. $0.75 "^^^.^"L'rcoTbilleT' ^-55 

Shepard. — Young Folks Josephus. 1.25 " 1.85 

SiviTER. — Nehe, Story of Nehemiah. 1.50 " 2.10 
Tolstoi. — Where Love Is — There is God 

Also. 0.35 " 1.25 

III. Epics, Romances and Classic Tales 

Arnold. — Sohrab and Rustem. 0.25 " 1.15 
Baldwin. — Story of Roland. 1.50 " 2.10 
Baldwin. — Story of Siegfried. 1.50 " 2.10 
Carpenter. — Hellenic Tales. 0.60 " 1.45 
Church. — Odyssey for Boys and Girls. 1.50 " 2.10 
Church. — Stories of Charlemagne. 1.75 " 2.25 
Church. ^ — Stories of Homer. 1.25 " 1.85 
Crawford. — Tr. the Kalevala, the Na- 
tional Epic of Finland. 3.00 " 3.50 
Darton. — Tales of the Canterbury Pil- 
grims. 1.50 " 2.10 
Darton. — Wonder-book of Old Romance. 1.50 " 2.10 
Davidson. — A Knight Errant — Story of 

Amadis of Gaul. 1.75 " 2.25 

Havell. — Stories from Don Quixote. 1.50 " 2.10 
Higginson. — Tales of the Enchanted 

Islands of the Atlantic 1.50 " 2.10 

Holbrook. — Northland Heroes. 0.35 " 1.25 
Hull. — The Boy's Cuchulain-Irish Hero 

Legends. 1.50 " 2.10 

Irving. — Tales from the Alhambra. 0.60 " 1.40 

Lang, A. — Book of Romance. 1.60 " 2.15 
Lang, Andrew. — "Tales of Troy and 

Greece." 1.00 " 1.65 

Lang, L. B. — Red Book of Heroes. 1.60 " 2.15 

Lanier. — The Boy's King Arthur. 2.00 " 2.45 
Mabie, — Heroes Every Child Should 

Know. 0.50 " 1.30 
Macleod. • — Book of King Arthur, etc. 

(Inexpensive edition.) 1.00 " 1.65 
Macleod. — Book of King Arthur and His 

Noble Knights. 1.50 " 2.10 

45 



1.50 


Book and bTORYTELLEHS 

Magazine Combined 


$2.10 


0.50 


U 


1.30 


0.50 


U 


1.30 


0.50 


U 


1.30 


0.50 


U 


1.30 


0.50 


U 


1.30 


2.00 


U 


2.45 


1.00 


U 


1.65 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

Column 

Macleod. — Stories from the Faerie Queene $1.50 

McSpadden. — Stories from Wagner. 

McSpadden. — Stories from Chaucer. 

Marshall. — Stories of Beowulf. 

Marshall. — Stories of Childe Roland. 

Marshall. - — Story of William Tell. 

Morris. — Story of Sigurd the Volsung. 

Palmer. — Tr. Odyssey of Homer. 

Pyle. — Story of King Arthur and his 

Knights. 2.00 " 2.45 

Pyle. — Story of Launcelot and his Com- 
panions. 2.00 " 2.45 

Pyle. — Some Merry Adventures of Robin 

Hood. (Condensed) 0.50 " 1.30 

Pyle. — Merry Adventures of Robin Hood 3.00 " 3.30 

Ragozin. — Frith j and Roland. 1.25 " 1.85 

Ragozin. — Siegfried and Beowulf. 1.25 " 1.85 

Royde-Smith. — Una and the Red Cross 

Knight. 2.50 " 2.85 

Tegner. — Frithiof's Saga. 1.25 " 1.85 

Tinker. — Beowulf. Tr. by Tinker. 1.00 " 1.65 

WiLMOT-BuxTON. — Stories of Persian 

Heroes. 1.50 " 2.10 

Wilson. — The Story of the Cid. 1.25 " 1.85 

IV. Fables, Myths, Heroes and Folk Lore 

iEsop's Fables. — Ed. by Joseph Jacobs. 1.50 " 2.10 
Andersen. — Wonder Stories. 1.00 " 1.65 
Austin. — The Basket AVoman — Ute In- 
dian Tales. 1.50 " 2.10 
Baldwin. — Story of the Golden Age. 1.50 " 2.10 
Baldwin. — Wonder-book of Horses. 0.75 " 1.60 
Blumenthal. — Folk Tales from the Rus- 
sians 0.60 " 1.45 
Bradish. — Old Norse Stories. 0.45 " 1.28 
Brown. — In the Days of Giants. 1.10 " 1.85 
Bryce. — Fables from Afar. 0.45 " 1.28 
Short Stories for Little Folks. 0.35 " 1.20 

46 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



Column I Column II 
Bryce. — That's Why Stories. $0.45 ^"j^'cr^'frcoTbiaeT* $1-28 
Dasent. — Popular Tales from the Norse 2.50 " 2.85 
Griffis. — The Fire-Fly's Lovers, Japan- 
ese Folk Tales. 1.00 " L65 
Grimm. — Household Stories. Tr. by Crane LOO " L70 
Hawthorne. — Wonderbook and Tangle- 
wood Tales. LOO « 1.70 
Harris. — Uncle Remus and His Friends. 1.50 " 2.10 
Harris. — Uncle Remus, His Songs and 

Sayings. 2.00 " 2.45 

KiNGSLEY. ^ — Heroes of Greek Fairy Tales. 1.00 " 1.65 

KuPFER. — Legends of Greece and Rome. 0.75 " 1.60 

Lagerlof. — Swedish Folk Tales. 1.50 « 2.10 

Lang, Andrew. — True Story Book. 2.00 " 2.45 
Mabie. — Norse Stories Retold from The 

Eddas. 1.25 " 1.75 

Peabody. — Old Greek Folk Stories. 0.25 « 1.15 

Ramaswami, Raju. — Indian Fables. 1.50 " 2.10 
RouLET-NixoN. — Japanese Folk Stories 

and Fairy Tales. 0.40 « 1.25 

ScuDDER. — Children's Book. 2.50 " 2.85 

Storr. — Half-a-Hundred Hero Tales. 1.35 « 1.95 

WiGGiN & Smith. — Tales of Laughter. 1.35 " 1.95 

WiGGiN & Smith. — Tales of Wonder. 1.50 " 1.95 

ZiTKALA-SA. — Old Indian Legends. 0.60 " 1.40 



V. Fairy Tales — Old and New 



Andersen. — 


- Fairy Tales. Tr. by Mrs. 




Lucas, 




2.50 


Andersen. - 


- Fairy Tales. Vol. I. 


0.40 


Vol. II. 




0.40 


Andersen. - 


- Stories and Tales. 


0.30 


ASBJORNSEN. 


— Fairy Tales from the Far 




North (Burt). 


1.00 


Baldwin. — 


Fairy Stories and Fables. 


0.35 


Bain. — Russian Fairy Tales. 


0.00 


Bain. — Cossack Fairy Tales and Folk Tales 0.00 




47 





2.85 
1.25 
1.25 
1.20 

1.65 
1.25 
1.65 
1.65 



THE 



STORYTELLERS 



MACxAZlNE 



Column 
Gary. — Fairy Legends of the ■ French 

Provinces. $0.60 

Chisholm. — In Fairy Land. 3.00 

CoMPTON. — American Indian Fairy Tales. 1.50 

Craik. — The Fairy Book. 0.50 

Dole. — Russian Faivy Book. 2.00 
Grimm, — Fairy Tales. Tr. by Mrs. Lucas. 

III. by Arthur Rackham. 1 .50 

Jacobs. — Celtic Fairy Tales. LOO 

Jacobs. — More Celtic Fairy Tales. L25 

Jacobs. — English Fairy Tales. 1.00 

Jacobs. — More English Fairy Tales. 1.25 

Jacobs. — Indian Fairy Tales. 1.00 

Lang, Andrew, — Blue True Story Book. 2.00 

Lang, Andrew. ■ — Crimson Fairy Book. 1.60 

Macdonnell, ■ — Italian Fairy Book. 1.35 

OzAKi. — Japanese Fairy Book. 1.50 

Rhys. — Fairy Gold. 0.70 

WiLLiSTON. — Japanese Fairy Tales. 0.75 



Column II 



Book and Storytellers' 
Magazine Combined 



$1.45 
3.30 
2.10 
1.30 
2.45 

2.10 
1.65 
1.85 
1.65 
1.85 
1.65 
2.45 
2.15 
1.90 
2.10 
1.55 
1.55 



VI. History, Biography, Travel and Adventure 

Abbott, ^ — Daniel Boone, 1.25 " 
Christopher Carson, Known as Kit 

Carson, 1.25 " 

Abbott. — David Crockett. 1.25 " 

Ambrosi. — When I was a Girl in Italy. 0.75 " 

Barnes, — Yankee Ships and Yankee 

Sailors. 0.50 " 

Bolton, — Lives of Poor Boys Who Be- 
came Famous. 1.50 " 

BoYESEN. — Boyhood in Norway. 1.25 " 

Brooks. — Story of Marco Polo. 1.50 " 

Brooks. — True Story of Christopher 

Columbus. 1.50 " 

Butterworth. — Zigzag Journeys around 

the World. Per vol. 1.50 " 

Carpenter. — Asia. 0.60 " 

Carpenter. — South America. 0.60 " 



1.85 

1.85 
1.85 
1.55 

1.30 

2.10 
1.85 
2.10 

2.10 

2.10 
1.45 
1.45 



48 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



Column I Column II 

Church. — Stories of the East from Hero- 

1 . * 1 lJ - Book anil Storytellers' <h i q~ 

dotUS. r[)l.Zi) Magazine Combined 'Pl-0<^ 

Custer (Mrs).^ — Boy General. Story of 
the Life of Major-General George 

A. Custer. 0.50 " L40 
Dana. — Two Years Before the Mast (Uni- 
versity). 1.00 " I. Go 
Du Chaillu. — Country of the Dwarfs. L25 " 1.85 
Lost in the Jungle. ' 1.25 " 1.85 
My Apingi Kingdom. 1.25 " 1.85 
Stories of the Gorilla Country. 1.25 " 1.85 
Wild Life Under The Equator. ' 1.25 " 1.85 
DuTTON. — Little Stories of Germany. 0.40 " 1.25 
Garland. — Boy Life on the Prairie. 1.50 " 2.10 
Gibson. — In Eastern Wonder-Lands. 1.50 " 2.10 
GoLDiNG.- — Story of David Livingston. 0.50 " 1.30 
Hawthorne. — Biographical Stories. 0.25 " 1.15 
Jenks, — Boy's Book of Explorations. 2.00 " 2.45 
Johnston and Spencer. ^ — Ireland's Story 1.40 " 2.05 
KiNGSLEY.— W^estwardHo! 0.60 " 1.45 
Knox. — Boy Travellers in Great Britain 

and Ireland. 2.00 " 2.45 
Mabie. — Heroines Every Child Should 

Know. 0.50 " 1.30 

McManus. — Our Little Hindu Cousin. 0.60 " 1.40 

Macgregor. — Story of France. 2.50 " 2.85 

Parkman. — Oregon Trail. 0.40 " 1.25 
Roosevelt and Lodge. — Hero Tales 

from American History. 1.50 " 2.10 
Roosevelt. — Ranch Life and the Hunt- 
ing Trail. 2.50 " 2.85 
ScHWATKA. — Children of the Cold. 1.25 " 1.85 
Starr. — American Indians. 0.45 " 1.30 
Tappan. — Story of the Greek People. 1.50 " 2.00 
Story of the Roman People. 1.50 " 2.00 
Van Bergen. — Story of Russia. 0.65 " 1.50 
White. — The Magic Forest. 0.50 " 1.30 
YouNGE. — Book of Golden Deeds. 1.00 " 1.55 

49 



THE STORYTELLERS* MAGAZINE 

VII. Stories of Humor 

Column I Column II 
Adelborg. - Clean Peter. $1.25 ntrJ^rcoTbioeT' $1-85 
Baum. — Father Goose. 1.25 " 1.85 
Wizard of Oz. 1.25 " 1.85 
Burgess. — Goops, and How to be Them. 1.50 " 2.10 
Carroll. — Alice's Adventures in Wonder- 
land. 0.60 « 1.45 
Through the Looking Glass. 0.60 « 1.45 
Chamney (Mrs.). — Paddy O'Leary, and 

his Learned Pig. 1.00 « 1.65 

Hale. — Peterkin Papers. 1.50 « 2.10 

Harris. — Nights with Uncle Remus. 1.50 " 2.10 

Lear. — Nonsense Songs. 2.00 " 2.45 

Paine. — Arkansaw Bear. 1.00 " 1.65 

THE NATIONAL STORY TELLERS' LEAGUE 

Home Office : 27 West Twenty-third Street, New York 

OFFICERS 

Richard T. Wyche, President R. M. Hodge, Secretary 

27 West 23d St., N. Y. 552 West 113th St., N. Y. 

James H. Van Sickle, Vice President W. H. Keister, Treasurer 

Superintendent of Schools, SpringBeld, Mass. Superintendent of Schools, Harrisonburg, Va. 

Origin of the Story Tellers^ League Movement in America 
One time some half a hundred people gathered on a lawn at twilight 
at the close of a summer's day, to tell stories, to sit on the grass, to relax, 
rest and commune with those spiritual forces that lie dormant in literature 
and in nature until touched by living and creative personalities. We were 
a group of teachers attending the Summer School of the South at the Uni- 
versity of Tennessee. Twice a week these meetings were held with an 
informal program of stories and the singing of familiar national melodies. 
At the close of that session of the school, numbering over two thousand 
teachers, a formal organization was made which afterward became the 
National Story Tellers' League. That was July, 1903, and marked the 
beginning of the Story Tellers' League movement in America. 

Since that time the movement has grown until many local leagues 
have sprung up all over the United States. The purpose of the whole 
movement in a word is the told story, oral literature, with the young people 
always in view. 

50 



STORY TELLERS 



LEAGUES 



STORY TELLERS' LEAGUES 

The Storytellers' Magazine publishes for the convenience of those 
interested in the story telhng movement a finding list of Story Tellers' 
Leagues throughout the United States. Correspondence is invited in order 
to supply omissions caused by lack of information so that the Magazine 
may be made as complete as possible. 

Leagues marked with a * publish Year Books. 



ALABAMA 

BIRMINGHAM 

Story Tellers' League 

, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Care J. H. Phillips, Supt. 
Birmingham Public Schools 
MONTEVALLO 

*Alabama Girls' Technical Institute 
Story Tellers' League 
Myrtle Brooke, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Alabama Girls' Technical In- 
stitute, Montevallo. Ala, 
TUSCUMBIA 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Rayner Tillman, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Care Public Schools, Tus- 
cumbia, Ala. 

ARKANSAS 

LITTLE ROCK 

*Story Tellers' League 
Miss Grace Boyce, President 
Miss Dora Hooper, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — Care Superintendent City 
Schools, Little Rock, Ark. 

COLORADO 

DENVER 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Edwina Fallis, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P.O. Address— 637 Franklin St.,Denver, Ccl. 

CONNECTICUT 

HARTFORD 

Story Tellers' League 

Prof. E. P. St. John, President 

"- , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Hartford School Religious 
Pedagogy, Hartford, Conn. 



GEORGIA 

ATHENS 

Story Tellers' League 

Prof. D. L. Earnest, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal, Athens, Ga. 

ATLANTA 

Story Tellers' League 

Mrs. Charles Goodman, President 

■ , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Care Milton, Bradley & Co., 
Atlanta, Ga. 

DALTON 

Story Tellers' League 
Mr. J. B. Lucas, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Supt. City Schools, Dalton. 
Ga. 

ILLINOIS 

BLOOMINGTON 

Story Tellers' League 

, President 

Mrs. Perry B. Johnson, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 402 West Chestnut St., 
Bloomington, 111. 

CARBONDALE 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Fadra R. Holmes, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal School, Car- 
bondale. III. 

CHICAGO 

*Story Tellers' League, (Chicago Branch 
Natl. S. T. L.) 

Miss Alice O'Grady, President 
Miss Grace Hemingway, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 444 N. Park Ave., Oak 
Park, III. 



51 



THE STORYTELLERS 



MAGAZINE 



DECATUR Story Club 

Miss Laura B. Smith, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 657 W. Main St., Decatur, 111. 
NORMAL 
Story Tellers' League, Normal University 

Frances Foote, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Normal University, Normal, 
111. 
ROCKFORD 
Story Tellers' Club 

, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 

IOWA 

DES MOINES 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Jeanette Ezekiels, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Kindergarten Dept., Drake 
University, Des Moines, la. 

KANSAS 

TOPEKA 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Linna E. Bresette, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 506 Polk St., Topeka, Kan. 

KENTUCKY 

COVINGTON 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Lily Southgate, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P, O. Address — High School, Covington, Ky, 
FORT THOMAS 
Story Tellers' League 

, President 

Miss Bessie J. White, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Southgate Ave., Fort Thom- 
as, Ky. 
LOUISVILLE 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Nannie Lee Frayser, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — University School, Louis- 
ville, Ky. 
NEWPORT 
Campbell County Story Tellers' League 

, President 

Miss Florence Savage, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — 36 Home Ave., Newport, Ky. 



LOUISIANA 

NEW ORLEANS 

*Story Tellers' Leagite 

Miss Eleanor Payne, President 

Miss Ida Barnett, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 1631 Octavia St., New Or- 
leans, La. 
SHREVEPORT 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Pearl Fortson, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — High School, Shreveport, La. 

MASSACHUSETTS 

WORCESTER 

Story Tellers' Club 

Miss Edna CoUamore, President 

— , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — 40 Merrick St., Worcester, 
Mass. 

MICHIGAN 

ADRIAN 

*Story Tellers' League 

, President 

Miss Fanny Rich, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Care Public Library, Adrian, 
Mich. 
BIG RAPIDS 

Story Tellers' League, Ferris Institute Sum- 
mer School. 

, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Ferris Institute Summer 
School, Big Rapids, Mich. 
CALUMET 
Story Tellfrs' League 

Mrs. Robert Wetzel, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Care C. & H. Library, Cal- 
umet, Mich. 
DETROIT 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Mary Conovcr, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Children's Room. Public Li- 
brary, Detroit, Mich. 

MISSOURI 

ST. JOSEPH 

*St. Joseph Story Tellers' League 
Miss Martina Martin, President 
Miss Gcorgiana Behne, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — 503 Antoine St., St. Jospek 
Mo. 



52 



STORY T E T. T> E R S 



L E A G tJ E S 



MISSISSIPPI 

BLUE MOUNTAIN 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Jennie Hardy, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Blue Mountain (\)ll<'g<s 
Blue Mountain, Miss. 
COLUMBUS 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Rosa B. Knox, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Normal Institute, Columbus, 
Miss. 

MONTANA 

BOZEMAN 

Story Tellers' League 

Mrs. R. J. Cunninghan, President 

■ , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Bozeman, Mont. 
DILLON 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Florence Mayer, President 

Miss Susie Karas, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— State Normal, Dillon, Mont. 
HELENA 
Story Tellers' League 

J. W. Curtis, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Care City Schools, Helena, 
Mont. 

OMAHA NEBRASKA 

Story Tellers' League 

, President 

Miss Josephine Grant, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 518 Park Ave., Omaha, Neb. 
*Wyche Story Tellers' League 

Miss Ida M. Crowell, President 

Miss Mary Krebs, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 1332 S. 25th .\ve., Omaha. 
Neb. 
LINCOLN 
Story Tellers' League, Nebraska State 

Teachers' Association 

Miss Cleland, President 

P. O. Address — Lincoln, Neb. 

NEW YORK 

BROOKLYN 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Charlotte Savage, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — 97 Lawrence St., Brooklyn, 
N. Y. 



NEW YORK CITY 

Story Tellers' League 

Mrs. E. D. Burt, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 500 West 122d St., New York 
Informal Fireside Story Telling C'ircle 

Miss L. A. Palmer, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 2.35 East 18th St., New York 
Story Tellers' League, Y.W.C.A. Training 

School 

, President 



, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 
SYRACUSE 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Maude C. Stewart, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Care Willard School, Syra- 
cuse, N. Y. 

OHIO 

CINCINNATI 

*Story Tellers' League 

Miss Pearl Carpenter, President 

Miss L. O'Neill, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 2371 Fairview Ave., Cin- 
cinnati, O. 
OXFORD 
Story Tellers" League 

Miss Annie Logan, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Miami University, Oxford, O, 
PIQUA 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Jessie H. Masden, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Schmidlapp Free Public Li- 
brary, Piqua, O. 

OKLAHOMA 

Story Tellers' League 
Lena Mead, President 
P. O. Address— Ponca City, Okla. 

PENNSYLVANIA 

PHILADELPHIA 

Story Tellers' League 
Prof. F. A. Child, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Box. 38, University Hall 
Philadelphia, Pa. 



53 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



NORTH EAST 

North East Story Telling Circle 
Miss Almcda Wells, President 

, Cor. Hrcreiarij 

P. O. Address— 140 W. Main St., North 
East, Pa. 



TENNESSEE 

HARRIMAN 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Inez A. Ayers, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Public Library, Harriman, 
Tenn. 

NASHVILLE 

*Story Tellers' League 

Miss Elizabeth Oehmig, President 
Miss Cornelia Barksdale, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 1207 Ordway Place, Nash- 
ville, Tenu. 



TEXAS 

SAN ANTONIO 

Mark Twain Story Tellers' League 

, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — High School, San Antonio, 



WACO 

Story Tellers' League of Baylor Univer- 
sity Summer School 

, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Care Prof. W. W. Pelham, 
Waco, Tex. 



VIRGINIA 

HARRISONBURG 

Story Tellers' League 

Prof. C. J. Heatwole, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal School, Har- 
risonburg, Va. 
RICHMOND 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Lucy Coleman, President 

— , Secretary 

P. O. Address — Mechanics Institute, Rich- 
mond, Va. 

WASHINGTON 

SEATTLE 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Gertrude Andrus, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Children's Room, Public Li- 
brary, Seattle. 

WEST VIRGINIA 

GLENVILLE 

Story Tellers' League 

Mr. Blaine Engle, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal School, Glen- 
ville, W. Va. 
HINTON 
Story Tellers' League 

Mr. R. L. Cole, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— High School, Hinton, W. Va. 
MORGANTOWN 
Beowulf Story Tellers' Club 

Prof. J. H. Cox, President 

■ — ■ , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — West Virginia University, 
Morgantown, W. Xa. 



"JOHNNY CAKE" UP-TO-DATE 

Her Dilemma 

Mrs. Newedd (excitedly) — Oh, John, dear, please hurry and send off a 
telegram for me. 

Newedd — What's the matter? 

Mrs. Newedd — Why, I'm taking a correspondence course in cooking,y 
and the cake I made is running all over the oven. I want to telegraph 
them quick to find out what to do. — From the Boston Transcript. 



THE S r () R Y TELLERS' M A G A Z I N V. 

Business Department 

Do you believe in fairies? We ask this question because 
if you do, you will at once be reminded that all good 
fairies stand ready upon the slightest provocation to 
lend their assistance to a good cause. When the virtuous 
Cinderella's fortunes were at a low ebb the weaving of the fairy 
wand promptly sunnnoned to her aid a host of cheerful at- 
tendants who worked so industriously in her behalf that she 
immediately became a princess and lived happily ever after. 

The Storytellers' Magazine, like the good fairy is interested 
in the welfare of the Children, and, also like the good fairy, is 
waving its wand to summon a host of workers to its side. At 
this moment it is waving its wand directly at you. In Fairy- 
land, as you may have noticed, the cheerful little fairy workers 
respond immediately to the waving of the wand, and w^ork 
most industriously without other remuneration than the thought 
of a brave deed well done. 

In Storyland, however, the case is quite different. Be- 
sides the consciousness of duty well performed the workers re- 
ceive a material compensation for their services. They not only 
have the honor of winning subscribers and adherents to the 
story tellers' cause, but the satisfaction of a substantial recogni- 
tion besides. Wliat is your reply .^ Will you come and help 
us — for a consideration.^ We need an army of workers, a 
veritable fairy host who will make The Storytellers' Magazine 
a welcomed guest in every corner of the land. If you will join 
forces with us in building up a great subscription list you will 
aid in making The Storytellers' Magazine a great Magazine. 
If you will but wave your wand we promise to wave ours. 

Every one is interested in the story telling idea, and when you 
show that for the modest sum of eight and three-quarter cents 
each month one may not only be kept in close touch with this 
great movement, but enjoy a liberal education in the delightful 

55 



T H E STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

stories and other illustrative literature which appear in the 
columns of the Magazine, you will be sure to find not only a 
cordial welcome, but a subscriber as well. 

Send us at once your name and address, and let us know 
what territory you will become responsible for, and we will 
send you the necessary instructions about getting subscribers. 

Do not attempt at first to cover too much territory. It is 
far better to cover a small territory thoroughly than a large 
area half heartedly. We have in preparation a list of premiums 
and club combinations which can be offered in connection 
with the Magazine. When ready, this list will be furnished to 
you and will aid you in getting subscribers. 
Address BUSINESS MANAGER 

The Storytellers' Magazine 

27 West 23d St., New York 

FORM OF APPLICATION 



BUSINESS MANAGER, STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

27 West Twenty-third Street 

NEW YORK 

Dear Sir: I herehij make application to represent The Storytellers' 
Magazine as resident agent in the State of ivith head- 
quarters at .... in County. 

City or Town 

/ should like to hare the following territory assigned to me 



(Here describe the Territory, whether 
City, County, State, &c.) 

// the territory is available, send Terms to Agents, Club Subscription Rates 
and all necessary information to 

Name 

Home Address 

Post Office State 

Professional or Business Address is 



56 



3ul? 

When the scarlet cardinal tells 
Her dreams to the dragon fly, 
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees, 
And murmurs a lullaby, 
It is July. 

— Susan Hartley Swett. 



57 




''Y^ONGUES in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.". 
58 



O 



Request to all 
!^o^5 anb (Blrls 




(][ "^l O fl// ^/rZs end &01/S, but only for the time of their childhood, the flowers of the field, 
^^ the blossoms of the wood, with the right to play among them freely, according to 
the custom of children, warning them at the same time against thistles and thorns. We 
give to them the banks of the brooks and the golden sands beneath the waters thereof, 
and the odors of the willows that dip therein and the white clouds that float over the giant 
trees, and we leave to the children the long, long days to be merry in in a thousand ways 
and the night and the moon, and the train of the milky way to wonder at. 

^ SyjE give to all boys all idle fields and commons, where ball may be played, 
^^ all pleasant waters where one may swim, all snowcla.'l hills where one may coast, 
and all streams and ponds where one may fish, or where, when grim winter comes, they 
may skate, to have and to hold the same for the period of their boyhood. And to all boys, 
all boisterous inspiring sports of rivalry and the disdain of weakness, and undaunted con- 
fidence in their own strength. We give the powers to make lasting friendships and of 
possessing companions, and to them exclusively we give all merry songs and brave chor- 
uses to sing with lusty voices. 

([[ '"]A ND to all girls the yellow fields and green meadows with the clover blossoms and 
'^ ^ butterflies thereof, the woods with their appurtenances, the squirrels and birds 
and echoes and strange noises, and all distant places which may be visited, together with 
the adventures there to be found. 

(|| '^yi ND to all children wheresoever they may be, each his own place at the fireside at 
'^ ^ night with all the pictures that may be seen in the burning wood, to enjoy without 
hindrance, and without any encumbrance of care, and to them also we give memory, and 
to them the volumes of the poems of Burns and Shakespeare and of other poets and their 
imaginary world, with whatever they may need, such as the red roses by the wall, the bloom 
of the hawthorn, the sweet strains of music, and the stars of the sky, to enjoy freely and 
fully without tithe or diminution until the happiness of old age crown them with snow. 

By Williston Fish (Adapted) 
59 




King Arthur's Tomb, Innsbruck 

'"T^HAT Arthur who with lance in rest, 
^-^ From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the lists of Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of Kings." —Tennyson. 







VOLUiSlE 1 



JULY, 1913 



NUMBER 2 



"Hearen lies about u.s in our iufanci/'^ 

"In tholde dayes of the King Arthur, 
Of which the Britons speke great honour 
All was this land fulfilled of faery." 

--The Canterbury Tales. 

^t)e Storj of IKing T^^rtl^ur 

{In Twelve Numbers) 

^Y Winona (T. Mtartin 

After the last story is told (the Passing of Arthur), and the children standing with Sir 
Bevidere upon the highest crag of the jutting rock, see the warrior King pass with the three 
tall queens in the dusky barge beyond the limits of the world, they too, wonder gazing on the 
splendor of his Passing. Though defeated in the last weird battle in the west, yet he was vic- 
torious in his ideals, for he became the spiritual King of his' race. 

"From the great deep to the great deep he goes." The children hear but do not quite 
understand — it is the better for that because something of the mystery of life and death is 
awakened in the child. In that it serves its highest purpose. It helps the child to realize 
that there are things in life that eye have not seen nor ear heard, and let it not be forgotten 
that while we use these great stories for formal work, the formal is always the result of the creative. 

"The letter killeth; the spirit giveth life." Thus it is that child and teacher leave the 
low plains of the "lesson hearer" and hand in hand walk the upland pastures of the soul. — Ed. 

I. Merlin and His Prophecies 

ONCE, in those dim, far off times when history fades 
away and is lost in the mists of tradition, there sat 
upon the throne of Britain a man named Vortigern. 
Like many another king of his day — and of later days 
for that matter, he had no right whatever to the 
crown, for he had gained it by the betrayal of a trust, 
and, some believed, by a still darker crime. Constantine, his over- 

61 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



lord, who had reigned in Britain before him, had, at his death, com- 
mitted to this Vortigern, his chief minister, the care of his three sons, 
Constans, the heir, and his two brothers Pendragon and Uther. Soon 
after the King's death Httle Constans had mysteriously disappeared. 
Then the true friends of the two remaining princes, fearing for their 
lives, had fled with them across the sea and found refuge for them at 
the court of France. 

All this, however, was now many years ago; and so long had 
Vortigern 's right to rule been unquestioned that he had almost for- 
gotten his crime. 

In the early days of his reign he had indeed fought valiantly 
against the only enemies that the Britons had at that time greatly to 
fear. These were the tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed Saxons who came 
from beyond the seas led by Hengcst and Horsa. But as the years had 
passed, he and his warriors had given themselves up more and more to 
lives of luxury and idleness, so that at last they had been obliged to 
make a shameful peace with the enemy, and the Saxons were now 
gradually becoming masters of the land. 

It so happened, therefore, that on the day when our story opens. 
King Vortigern had gathered his court about him in his capital city 
of London, there to hold a high festival, and in feasting and carousing 
to forget the disgrace of their surrender and the ills of the country. 

Suddenly, up to the castle gate, through the great portal, along 
the wide corridors, and into the very banquet-hall itself, never stop- 
ping to dismount, rode a breathless messenger. 

"To arms! Sir King, to arms!" he cried, waiting for no ceremony. 
"Pendragon and Uther have this day set sail from the coast of France 
with a mighty army, and they have sworn by a great oath to take your 
life as you took the life of their brother Constans!" 

Then the King remembered, and his face went ashen grey. He 
turned to one after another of the men who should have been his 
mighty warriors, and, reading in their flabby cheeks and lustreless eyes 
the story of their slothful living, knew that his cause was well-nigh 
lost before the fighting began. - 1, . ' 

"Summon my messengers!" he was able to say at last, and when 
these were brought before him : 

"Ride! into every corner of my kingdom, ride! And call together 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



iTfsr 



the most skillful artificers, craftsmen and mechanics, for I have a 
great work for them to do." 

Within a week the messengers on their fleet horses had scoured 
the land, so that there stood before the King a hundred of the best 
workmen that Britain could produce. 

"Now hear my command," said he. "On the plain that lies 
furthest west in my kingdom build me a tower whose walls shall be 
so firm as to withstand all assault of catapult and battering-ram; and 
have it ready for my retreat within a hundred days, or your lives, to 
the last man, shall be forfeited." 

The workmen left the presence of the King with fear in their 
hearts; but to such good purpose did they labor that within a few 
days there began to be visible upon the plain the jagged outlines of 
the walls that were to enclose that mighty tower. Then the weary 
workmen, for the first time feeling assured that they could accomplish 
their task within the hundred days, lay down for the night and were 
soon fast asleep. 

With the first pale glimmer of dawn, however, they arose ready to 
return to their labors with renewed energy. But what a sight met their 
eyes ! The tower lay in ruins ! The walls had fallen during the night ! 

Then with the strength of terror they fell upon their task once 
more. When the second morning came they turned their gaze half in 
hope and half in dread toward the scene of their labors, only to have 
their worst fears confirmed. Once again there lay before them but a 
heap of ruins ! 

"We must use larger stones," said one. 

"We have no time to talk," put in a second, "If our lives are 
to be spared we must work as we never worked before." 

So all through the long hours of the day they toiled in silence and 
in dread until the damage of the night had been repaired, only to find 
when morning came that, for the third time, their tower had crumbled 
to the ground. 

"This is enchantment!" they then cried in despair. "We cannot 
build the tower. Let us go and throw ourselves before the King to 
plead for mercy!" 

But when Vortigern, with his guilty conscience, heard that word 
"enchantment," a greater dread fell upon his heart. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"Lead out these useless artificers," he thundered, "and summon 
my wise men." 

And presently the great doors of the throne-room were thrown 
open and, one by one, in solemn procession, trailing their black 
robes, the astrologers, the wizards and the magicians of the realm 
filed in, until they stood in a silent semi-circle before the King. 

At last Vortigern raised his eyes. 

"Tell me," he said gloomily, "tell me, O my Wise Men, as you 
hold in your possession all the secrets of this world, and of other 
worlds unknown to ordinary mortals, tell me, I adjure you, why my 
tower of refuge will not stand." 

He ceased, and a deep silence fell upon the room. Wizard turned 
to astrologer, and astrologer to magician, for each knew in his heart 
that he could give no answer to the question of the King. 

At last the oldest man present stepped forward and bowing low, 
began to speak in deep and solemn tones: 

"Your Majesty," said he, "give us we pray you until tomorrow at 
high noon. This night shall the wizards work their spells and the 
astrologers consult the stars in their courses. Then shall we be able 
to tell you why your tower will not stand." 

"Let it be so," replied the King, "but also let it be well under- 
stood that if at high noon to-morrow you are still unable to answer, 
your lives shall pay the penalty, even as the lives of my workmen 
shall pay the penalty if they do not raise my tower within the hundred 
days. Fail me not, my Wise Men!" 

That night, far down in the deepest dungeons of the castle, the 
wizards gathered together about a steaming cauldron, vainly chanted 
their incantations and worked their magic spells, while on the highest 
battlements, the black-robed astrologers watched the stars from even- 
ing until morning; but when the day-star itself faded from their sight 
in the paling blue of dawn, they were no wiser than at the beginning 
of their vigil. 

"What shall we do?" they cried to one another in consternation 
when the two companies of watchers had met to report their failures. 

"Hush! Speak low!" whispered the Sage. "We must pretend. 
It is the only way to save ourselves. I have a plan." 

And as they gathered about him he continued: 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"You all know the prophecy— that a child who never had mortal 
parents shall soon appear among us, and that he shall be able to read 
more in the stars than the wisest of our astrologers, that he shall be 
a greater magician than the greatest of us, and that through him we 
shall lose our power and pass away?" 

"Ah! yes, we have heard," they answered, shaking their white 
heads mournfully. 

"That child," continued the Sage, "is living somewhere in Britain 
at this very moment, and his name is Merlin. Let us tell the King 
that his tower, to make it stand, needs but the blood of this child 
sprinkled upon its foundations. So shall we by the same act save our 
lives and rid ourselves of one who otherwise will surely work us harm." 

Then the Wise Men bowed their heads and answered: 

"Y^ou have spoken the words of wisdom." 

So at high noon that day, when they were once more gathered 
about the throne, they gave their answer: 

"Seek, your Majesty," said they, "a child named Merlin who 
never had mortal parents. Sprinkle his blood upon the foundations 
of your tower. Then will it stand until the end of time." 

Thereupon the King summoned his messengers and gave the order : 

"Ride! into every town, village and hamlet of my kingdom, ride! 
And seek this child until you find him; but know that if he is not 
brought to me within ten days, your lives shall be forfeited, and not 
yours alone, but also the lives of my Wise Men for giving me useless 
knowledge, and the lives of my workmen for doing useless work ! Ride ! " 

Then out from old London Town, north and south and east and 
west, up hill and down dale, over mountains and across rivers, rode 
the King's messengers on their strange quest. One day, two days, 
three, four, five and six days, seven days, eight days; and when the 
ninth day came two of them found themselves far from home, riding 
through the street of a tiny hamlet. ^ _^ " 

"What is the use of- seeking further?" said one. "For my part 
I do not believe, for all the Wise Men say, that there ever was or ever 
could be such a child." 

"I fear you are right," replied his companion, "we may as well 
give up the search and flee for our lives." 

As he spoke the last words, however, the men were obliged to 

66 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 




"Wizard turned to astrologer^' 



draw rein lest their horses should trample upon a crowd of children who 
were quarreling in the narrow street. One urchin had just given 
another a sharp blow across the face, whereupon his victim was pro- 
ceeding to vent his rage in words that immediately arrested the atten- 
tion of the messengers. 

"How dare you strike me?" he was screaming at the top of his 
shrill little voice. "You who came nobody knows from where, and 
who never had a father or a mother!'* 

In an instant one of the men had slipped from his horse. Then, 
having seized both boys, he drew them aside that he might question 
them. Very soon boys and men found themselves the centre of an 
interested group of villagers each one of whom seemed more anxious 
than his neighbor to give all the information that he happened to 
possess on the subject. 

"Yes, his name is Merlin," said one, "and he was cast upon our 
shores by the waves of the sea." 

67 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"Not at all!" interrupted another. "He was brought to our vil- 
lage in the night by evil spirits." 

And so it went, but the anxious messengers soon cut short their 
eloquence. 

"If your name is Merlin," said they to the lad, "and you do not 
know who your father and mother are, you must come with us. It is 
the command of the King." 

"I am quite willing," replied the boy with unexpected meekness. 

"Perhaps he would not be so willing," whispered one to the 
under his breath to his companion, "if he knew why he is wanted." 

"I hear what you say,'* Merlin broke in, "and what is more, I 
know what you mean; but just the same, I am willing to go with you 
to King Vortigern. In fact I struck the boy knowing what he would 
say and what you would do; so you see I am not afraid." 

On the tenth day after the departure of his couriers, the King sat 
alone in his audience chamber. Suddenly the great doors were swung 
wide, and a boy wearing the simple dress of a tiller of the soil ap- 
peared before him. 

"Your Majesty," said he, "I am Merlin, the child who never 
had father or mother. You sent for me because your Wise Men have 
said that my blood is needed to make your strong tower stand. They 
have told you an untruth because they know nothing about the tower, 
and also because they are my enemies. I ask only that you call them 
together so that I can prove to you that what I say is so." 

Then, at the astonished King's command, the great bell of the 
castle was tolled, and presently the black-robed astrologers, wizards 
and magicians filed once again into the royal presence. 

"You may question my Wise Men now," said the King to Merlin, 
"and save yourself if you can." 

"Tell us, then, O Prophets of King Vortigern," cried the boy, 
"what lies under the plain where the King has tried to build his 
tower." 

Then the Wise Ones drew apart that they might take counsel 
together, and presently the Sage stepped before the King and said: 

" Your Majesty, we are now ready to give our answer. We who 
have the power to look deep into the bowels of the earth know well 
that beneath the plain where you have sought to build your tower, 

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should you dig never so deep, you would find nothing but the good, 
brown soil of your Majesty's kingdom." 

At this Merlin smiled and shook his dark curls. 

"You tell us, then," said the King. 

"Let your workmen dig," replied the boy, "and beneath the 
plain they will find a deep pool." 

And when the workmen had dug, they found, just as Merlin had 
prophesied — a deep, dark pool beneath the plain. 

Then cried the King: 

"My Wise Men have been put to shame by this mere lad. His 
life shall be spared; but they, for their deceit, shall be driven in dis- 
grace from my kingdom." 

But Merlin interposed, saying: 

"Not yet. Sir King, I pray you. Let us have another test that 
you may feel perfectly sin-e. Ask your Wise Men what lies under the 
pool that lay under the plain where you sought to build your tower." 

Again the W'ise Ones talked together; and again because they 
knew not what else to say, they gave the same answer: 

" Sir King, you will find good, brown earth beneath the pool that 
lay beneath the plain where Your Majesty sought to build his tower." 

"No, Sir King," said Merlin. "Beneath the pool you will find 
two great stones. Let your workmen drain the pool and see." 

And when the pool was drained, there lay two immense boulders, 
just as Merlin had said. 

"Truly this is a marvelous child," exclaimed Vortigern. "Away 
with my false prophets! From this time forth I will have no Wise 
Man but Merlin!" 

"Stay, Y'our Majesty," said Merlin. "Let there be one more 
test, then no question can ever arise in your mind. Ask your Wise 
Men what lies beneath the stones that lay beneath the pool that lay 
beneath the plain where you sought to build your tower." 

But this time the Wise Ones were wise enough to hold their peace. 

"Very well," said Merlin, "then I will tell you. Beneath the 
stones you will find two great dragons, one red, the other white. 
During the day these monsters sleep, but at night they awaken and 
fight; and it was because of their terrible underground battles that 
your tower could not be made to stand. The night following the 

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raising of the stones they will fight for the last time; for the red dragon 
will kill the white one, and after that, O Mighty King, you may build 
your tower in peace." 

Then the Wise Ones trembled, and silently they followed the King 
and Merlin across the plain to watch the fatal raising of the stones. 

When at last the mighty boulders had yielded to the combined 
strength of all the workmen, there, before the eyes of the crowds that 
had gathered, lay the two dragons — fast asleep. 

"Now send the people away," said Merlin to the King, "but you 
and I must stay here and watch, for at midnight the dragons will fight 
their last battle." 

And when the crowds had dispersed, and the Wise Men slunk 
away one by one, Vortigern and the boy Merlin sat alone together on 
the brink of the pool as the evening shadows fell. 

The air grew chill. Presently the moon arose, shedding its weird 
light upon the strange scene; and still the dragons slept on. Toward 
midnight Merlin leaned forward, and, lightly touching the King's arm, 
whispered : 

"See! They are about to awaken. Make no noise ! " 

Then slowlj', and still drowsily, the great white dragon stirred and 
opened his hideous eyes, while along his whole scaly body there ran a 
shudder. This seemed to arouse the red monster from his dreams, for 
before King Vortigern could draw breath, the two terrible creatures 
had risen on their bat-like wings far above his head, and, with fire 
streaming from their nostrils, were gnashing upon each other with 
their fangs, and striking at each other with their ugly claws. 

For an hour or more the awful battle continued, sometimes far 
above their heads, and sometimes perilously near them on the earth; 
and it seemed to the King that neither would ever be able to gain an 
advantage — so well were they matched. After a while, however, the 
white beast began to show signs of weakening; and at last with a 
mighty crash, he fell to the ground — dead. Then the red dragon 
spread his wings, and with a strange hissing sound vanished into the 
shadows of the night, never to be seen again by mortal eyes. 

"Tell me," said the King when he could find sufficient voice to 
speak. " Tell me, O wonderful boy that you are, what do these strange 
things mean.f^" 

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"I will tell you, O mighty King, without fear or favor," replied 
Merlin, "although I know full well that what I have to say will not 
be at all to your liking. You may build your tower now, for there is 
pothing to hinder you; and you may shut yourself up within its strong 
walls. Nevertheless, Pendragon and Uther, the sons of King Con- 
stantine whose trust you betrayed, and the brothers of the young heir 
Constans whom you so cruelly murdered, have to-day landed on your 
shores with a mighty army. Forty days and forty nights shall the 
siege continue, and at the end of that time your tower shall be de- 
stroyed with every living soul within its walls. 

"Then shall reign in Britain first Pendragon and afterwards 
Uther; and all the days of their lives they shall war against the Saxon 
whom you, Sir King, have brought to this land. The White Dragon 
stands for the Saxon, and the Red Dragon for the Briton. Long and 
deadly shall be the strife between them, but in the fulness of time there 
shall be born to Uther a son whose name shall be called ARTHUR. 
He shall be the greatest king that these Islands are destined ever to 
know. He and his wonderful knights shall make war on the Saxon 
and drive him from the land. So shall the mischief of your reign be 
repaired — for a season." 

Then the King, still clinging to the shadow of his former hope, 
hastened the building of his tower, and shut himself within its mighty 
walls. Nevertheless, within forty days after the beginning of the 
siege, having been driven back time and again, Pendragon and LTther, 
counselled by Merlin, threw burning brands over the ramparts, so 
that the tower took fire and burned with a mighty conflagration until 
all within had perished. 

Thus was Merlin's prophecy concerning Vortigern fulfilled; and 
as for his other prophecies — that is another story. 

(Number Two — "How Arthur Won His Kingdom" — will appear in the next issue) 

GLOSSARY FOR BEGINNERS 

1. Adjure, to charge or entreat solemnly. 2. Artificer, one who works or constructs with 
skill. 3. Astrologer, one who reads the supposed destinies of men in the stars. 4. Battering- 
ram, a long beam, usually with a heavy head, used in making breaches in walls. 5. Boulder, 
a stone or rock. 6. Catapult, a military engine used for throwing spears. 7. Caiddron, a large 
kettle or boiler. 8. Hamlet, a small village. 9. Incantations, the saying or singing of magical 
words for enchantment. 10. Over-lord, a king or chief who held authority over other lords. 
11. Quest, a search. 12. Realm, a kingdom. 12. Sage, a wise man. 14. Vigil, a night watch. 
15. Wizard, one having the power of magic; a male witch. 

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Sonata* 



And the night shall be filled with music 
And the cares that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

— Longfellow. 



Beethoven 

Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie. 

"^IIT happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called 
<^ upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk and afterward 
sup with me. In passing through some dark, narrow street he 
paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said — "What sound is that.^* It is 
from my Sonata in F!" he said eagerly. "Hark! how well it is 
played!" 

It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and lis- 
tened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was 
a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing. "I cannot play any more. 
It is so beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, 
what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!" 

"Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets when 
there is no remedy.'^ We can scarcely pay our rent." 

* The text of the Beethoven Moonlight Sonata is reprinted from the Aldine Fourth Reader, through the courtesy 
of the publishers, Newson & Co., New Yorli. 

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"You are right; and yet I wish for once in mj' hfe to hear some 
really good music. But it is of no use." 

Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said. 

"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?" 

"I will play for her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feel- 
ing — genius — understanding. I will play to her, and she will under- 
stand it." And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon the 
door. 

A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and 
near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, 
sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling about her face. 
Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and 
turned toward us as we entered. 

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music, and was 
tempted to enter. I am a musician." 

The girl blushed and the young man looked grave — somewhat 
annayed. 

"I — I also overheard something of what you said," continued 
my friend. "Y^ou wish to hear — that is, you would like — that is — 
shall I play for you.f^" 

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something 
so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell 
was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily. 

"Thank you!" said the shoemaker, "but our harpsichord is so 
wretched, and w^e have no music." 

"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the Frau- 
lem — 

He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and 
he saw that she was blind. 

"I — I entreat your pardon!" he stammered. "But I had not 
perceived before. Then you play by ear.^^" 

"Entirely." 

"And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no con- 
certs.?" 

"I used to hear a lady practising near us. During the summer 
evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro 
outside to listen to her." 

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She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself 
quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck 
the first chord than I knew what would follow — how grand he would 
be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years 
I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl 
and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant when his 
fingers began to wander along the keys the very tone of the instru- 
ment began to grow sweeter and more equal. 

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The 
former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly 
forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down 
near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of 
her heart would break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It 
was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to 
wake. 

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, 
and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, 
admitting a flood of brilliant moonshine. The room was almost as 
light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano 
and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken 
by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested 
upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for 
some time. 

At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, 
yet reverently. "Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and 
what are you.f^" 

The composer smiled, as only he could smile, benevolently, 
indulgently, kingly. "Listen!" he said, and he played the opening 
bars of the Sonata in F. 



lu tempo d'lm Meimetto. M. M. J= 104. 




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The Moonlight Sonata 



A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and 
exclaiming, "Then you are Beethoven!" they covered his hand with 
tears and kisses. 

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties. 

"Play to us once more — only once more!" 

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon 
shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged, 
and massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" 
he said, looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands 
dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely 
movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow 
of moonlight over the dark earth. 

This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time — a sort 
of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. 
Then came a swift agitato finale — a breathless, hurrying, trembling 
movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impulsive, 
terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in 
emotion and wonder. 

"Farewell to you!" said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and 
turning toward the door — "farewell to you!" 

"You will come again.?" asked they, in one breath, 

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He paused, and 
looked compassion- 
ately, almost tenderly, 
at the face of the blmd 
gh-l. "Yes, yes," he said hurriedly; *T 
iiiif^'^'/ / / / ^^^^^ come again, and give the Fraulein 
V .^ vJ^/,x^^'P^ some lessons. Farewell! I will soon 

^\^ ^^^^^ Cr~^^ I come again!" They followed us in si- 
lence more eloquent than words, and stood 
at their door till we were out of sight and 
hearing. 

"Let us make haste back," said Beetho- 
ven, "that I may write out that sonata 
while I can yet remember it." 

We did so, and he sat over it till long past 
day-dawn. And this was the origin of that 
Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted. 

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^ !^05e from ^'fomer's (Brave 



Td' 



^HE nightingale's love for the rose pervades all the songs of the East; 
in those silent starlit nights the winged songster invariably brings a 
serenade to his scented flower. 

Not far from Smyrna, under the stately plantain trees where the 
merchant drives his laden camels, which tread heavily on hallowed ground, 
and carry their long necks proundly, I saw a blooming hedge of roses. 
Wild doves fluttered from branch to branch of the tall trees, and where the 
sunbeams caught their wings they shone like mother of pearl. There was 
one flower on the rose hedge more beautiful than all the rest, and to this 
one the nightingale poured out all the yearning of its love. But the rose 
was silent, not a single dewdrop lay like a tear of compassion upon its 
petals, while it bent its head towards a heap of stones. 

"Here rests the greatest singer the world has ever known!" said the 
rose. " I will scent his grave and strew my petals over it when the storms 
tear them off. The singer of the Iliad returned to earth here, this earth 

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whence I sprang! — I, a rose from Homer's grave, am too sacred to bloom 
f'or a mere nightingale!" 

And the nightingale sang till from very grief his heart broke. 

The camel driver came with his laden camels, and his black slaves; 
his little boy found the dead bird, and buried the little songster in Homer's 
grave. The rose trembled in the wind. Night came; the rose folded her 
petals tightly and dreamt that it was a beautiful sunny day, and that a 
crowd of strange Prankish men came on a pilgrimage to Homer's grave. 

Among the strangers was a singer from the North, from the home 
of mists and northern lights. He broke off the rose and pressed it in a 
book, and so carried it away with him to another part of the world, to 
his distant Fatherland. And the rose withered away from grief lying 
tightly pressed in the narrow book, till he opened it in his home and said 
"Here is a rose from Homer's grave!" 

Now this is what the flower dreamt, and it woke up shivering in the 
wind; a dewdrop fell from its petals upon the singer's grave. The sun 
rose and the day was very hot, the rose bloomed in greater beauty than 
ever in the warmth of Asia. 

Footsteps were heard and the strange Franks whom the rose saw in its 
dream came up. Among the strangers was a poet from the North, he broke 
off the rose and pressed a kiss upon its dewy freshness, and carried it with 
him to the home of mists and northern lights. The relics of the rose rest 
now like a mummy between the leaves of his Iliad, and as in its dream it 
hears him say when he opens the book, 

"Here is a rose from Homer's grave!" 



T^HE SECRET WOULDST THOU KNOW 

V-^ TO TOUCH THE HEART OR FIRE THE BLOOD AT WILL? 
LET THINE OWN EYES O'ERFLOW; 

LET THY LIPS QUIVER WITH THE PASSIONATE THRILL; 
SEIZE THE GREAT THOUGHT, ERE YET ITS POWER BE PAST. 
AND BIND, IN WORDS, THE FLEET EMOTIONS FAST. 

SO SHALT THOU FRAME A LAY 
THAT HAPLY MAY ENDURE FROM AGE TO AGE, 
AND THEY WHO READ SHALL SAY: 
'WHAT WITCHERY HANGS UPON THIS POET'S PAGE! 
WHAT ART IS HIS THE WRITTEN SPELLS TO FIND 
THAT SWAY FROM MOOD TO MOOD THE WILLING MIND!" 

William Cullen Bryant. 

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O^e IFmagie in Story Oellins 

^]p ^ercival (ri)ubb 

1 UNDOUBTEDLY the element of fundamental impor- 
^^ tance in story telling, as in all forms of art, is structure; 
"the bones," as a Japanese phrase has it; the bones of 
the limbs, properly joined together to form the well-knit skele- 
ton of the living body of a work of art. "Let there be form!" 
is the first fiat of the artist. That form is literally the "em- 
bodiment" of the soul of intention which animates the creative 
process of the artist's mind. Such is the meaning of Spencer's, 
"the soul is form, and doth the body make." 

It is not, however, about form or the joinery of the story- 
teller's craft that I would speak; but of what comes next in 
importance, — the clothing of the skeleton in a beautiful texture 
of bodily substance. That substance must be of imagination 
all compact. The language of which it is made must employ 
the image, must evoke imagery. Language, it has been said, is 
fossil poetry; and that is because in the first place the essential 
of poetry is the image; and, secondly, because language seizes 
upon the graphic qualities of things. So saving a quality is 
imagination, that the use of appropriate and vivid imagery 
will sometimes atone in a story teller for lack of structural 
soundness. This is true, for instance, of some Irish story tellers 
and stories. The joinery is often poor; for the architecture of 
form is not the Celt's strong point. The skillful management of 
development and climax is frequently wanting in his work. 
He does not know just when to stop; he loves to talk on, and 
embroider, and gossip. And yet the winning charm of the 
genuine Celtic story is irresistible. It holds us by the charm of 

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style; and the power of its style lies to a large extent in felicity 
of imagery, and what we must call by the larger phrase, im- 
aginative power. 

This view was again borne in upon the writer in reading 
recently a passage from one of the letters of the great French 
painter. Millet. Indeed, it is for the sake of using Millet's 
delightful illustration to enforce once more the truth of a not 
unfamiliar principle that this brief article is written. 

Millet's illustration is taken from Theocritus. It is worth 
noting, in passing, what a wonderful instinct for greatness 
Millet had. He nurtured himself upon the great masters; took 
to them naturally from the first. This was true of the literature 
as well as the art which he came across. The peasant lad felt 
the distinction and power of the poetry of Virgil even while he 
learned to construe the difficult lines there on the farm in 
Normandy, with the aid of the priest who instructed him. 
Later on he took as naturally to Theocritus as to Virgil. He was 
always a pupil of the great spirits. 

In the letter I quote from, he begins by expressing his 
enthusiasm for the Sicilian poet. He seizes upon the copy of 
the Idylls sent to him, and does not leave it till he has "de- 
voured the contents." But he adds, "It is when I take it word 
for word that I am most delighted." He finds things in the 
original which are lacking in the translation; and he gives this 
one striking example: 

"In the first idyl, on the vase upon which all kinds of things are sculp- 
tured, among others is a vine, full of ripe grapes, which a little fellow guards, 
sitting on a wall. But on both sides are two foxes; one surveys the rows, 
devouring the ripe grapes. Does not 'surveys the rows' show you the lay- 
out of a grape-vine? Does it not make it real? And can't you see the fox 
trotting up and down, going from one row to another? It is a picture, an 
image! You are there. But in the translation this living image is so 
attenuated that it would hardly strike you. 'Two foxes; one gets into the 

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vineyard and devours the grapes.' O translator, it is not enough to under- 
stand Greek: you must also know a vineyard to be struck by the accuracy 
of your poet's image, that it may spur you to tlie exertion of rendering it 
well! And so on with everything. But I come back to that: / cant see 
the fox trotting — in the translator's vineyard. 

Could there be a more convincing plea for the enlivening 
image than that? The image, in other words, is the condition 
of sight, visualization, realization. The story teller, on looking 
over a written draft of the story he is going to tell, can ask no 
more important question than this: *' Where can I substitute 
for any weak abstract word one that arouses an image.-^" It 
is not enough to think in images one's self, to have an image, 
one must be able to convey it by the use of an image-evoking word. 

Another very good instance which I have frequently cited 
to students in talking about story telling is the expression 
employed in Shakespeare's *' Hamlet" when it is said, 

"The cock that is the trumpet to the morn 
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
Awake the god of day.". . . 
Consider how the effect would have been weakened if, instead 
of the concrete, image-evoking word "throat," Shakespeare 
had used the word which most of us would have employed, 
namely, the word "voice." That word merely suggests a sound; 
"throat" flashes the visible image of that "bird of dawning." 
We see. Not only do we hear that "shrill-sounding" trumpeter, 
but we see that straining throat. W^e are there with the bird. 

Many other examples might be cited, but these must 
suffice to bring home once more, with fresh emphasis perchance 
the truth that, after structural form, after securing sequence, 
coherence, climax, unity, the most important factor in story 
telling is the apt and adequate employment of the image. 
Imagery is the magic of the story-teller's art. 

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£n6^mion 



'^jjprNDYMION is the name of a man who fell in love with the Moon, 
^ the beantiful, bright shining Moon whom the waves obey, and 
which sends her light silver down upon the earth to ripple across 
the tranquil waters and to shine upon the towers of sleeping cities, 
and to creep peacefully into the bed-chambers of its inhabitants 
and kiss the tangled, golden ringlets of dreaming children. Now 
Endymion's friends thought he was very foolish to fall in love with 
any one so far beyond his reach. Especially was this true of the Earth, 
who was, in fact, in love with Endymion. And altho Earth put 
forth her gajest and sweetest smelling flowers to attract Endymion, 
Endymion would not even take the trouble to look upon poor Earth, 
but always kept his eyes directed toward the shining Moon. 

At last poor Earth could stand it no longer, so she went to an 
old enchantress named Dipsas and asked her whether she could weave 
a charm that would bring Endymion's thoughts back to Earth. 
Dipsas said that such was not her power, but she could bewitch Endy- 
mion so that a long sleep would fall upon him and therefore he couldn't 

*Retold from Lyly's "Endymion." 

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love 
any 



the Moon 

more. So 
one night when 
Endymion was 
out gazing long- 
ingly upon the 
Moon and sighing 
and calling for her 
to look down upon 
him and at least 
smile upon him, 
the enchantress 
Dipsas stole up 
behind him and 
waving a fan of 
hemlock above his 
head> put him in 
a sound sleep. 

And there upon 
the bank he slept 
for twenty years, 
and finally even 
the Moon began 
to miss him and 
inquired where he 
was, and when she 
found that Endy- 
mion had been 
thrown into a long 
sleep she became 

interested in his welfare and perhaps sighed a little for his love, but 
try as she would she could find no one who could break the spell. 
Finally she sent Eumenides, a close friend of Endymion, to seek over 
the world for a remedy. 

In his travels about the earth to find a remedy Eumenides met 
with an old man sitting beside a fountain, and he told the old man 
what he sought. ^ 

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H," said the old man, "you need travel no farther, for 
he who can clearly see the bottom of this foun- 
tain has found remedy for anything." 

And so Eumenides looked and saw the bot- 
tom of the fountain clearly and read as follows: 
"When the bright, round Moon shall come and 
kiss Endymion, he shall rise from his sleep." 

Eumenides hastened back and told the Moon 
what he had read at the bottom of the fountain. 
Now the Moon was much surprised when she 
heard of the remedy for Endymion's long sleep, but finally she con- 
sented to kiss him, and — wonder upon wonders ! — the sleeper of twenty 
years awoke. And so delighted was Endymion for the awakening 
that he immediately lost all traces of his twenty years' sleep and 
stood before them a young man again. And so delighted was the 
Moon with this young man who had undergone so much because of 
his love for her that she said he might continue to worship her 
forever and ever. 

And the writer of this story meant to represent by the Moon 
the Queen of England, Queen Elizabeth, whom all Englishmen loved 
and honored and some day when you study English history you will 
see what brave deeds these Englishmen performed for their Queen, 
the shining Moon, so bright, and beautiful, but so beyond their reach. 



GIVE ME LEAVE TO ENJOY MYSELF; THAT PLACE THAT DOES 
CONTAIN MY BOOKS, THE BEST COMPANIONS, IS TO ME A 
GLORIOUS COURT, WHERE HOURLY I CONVERSE WITH THE OLD 
SAGES AND PHILOSOPHERS; AND, SOMETIMES, FOR VARIETY, I 
CONFER WITH KINGS AND EMPERORS, AND WEIGH THEIR 
COUNSELS; CALLING THEIR VICTORIES, IF UNJUSTLY GOT, INTO 
A STRICT ACCOUNT, AND, IN MY FANCY, DEFACE THEIR ILL- 
PLACED STATUES." — Beaumont and Fleteher. 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 




of Saint 
(Tl^ristop^er 

^^5 tol6 br :a.I5.Wrcb<i 



St. Christopher, Memling 

Royal Museum, Dresden 
Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie. 



The meaning and value of the 
story of Saint Christopher 



The story of Saint Christopher is a story of the misunderstood boy. Many a child is 
misunderstood by parent and teacher, and, like St. Francis of Assisi, is driven from home and 
yet makes a great success in life. 

The story is an epitome of a man's life. Christopher in his boyhood had strength — he 
worshiped strength — he could not find normal means of recreation, so he did evil. His hero, 
the German Emperor, represents the interest of the child from eight to twelve years, with splendid 
physical health, with moral and religious nature undeveloped. Christopher followed the normal 
impulse in serving the German Emperor. The adolescent boy in high-school period, is repre- 
sented, in a way, by the second hero that Christopher served, a devil, a mischief-maker, but 
as the boy grows out of that he catches a glimpse of the moral hero just as Christopher did 
when he heard of the man of Galilee. — Ed. 

ONCE on a time, a long time ago, beyond the seas, there hved 
a boy named Christopher. As he grew up he was unusually 
strong and giant like. He drove the cattle to field and lived in 
the mountains and on the plains. Being alone much of his time 
he had little opportunity for play or sport with other children, and 
when he came home his parents did not play with him or entertain 
him, and so he sought recreation where he could find it in other places. 

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He was full of energy and his parents frequently scolded him, which 
drove him off to himself in bad moods. On one occasion he tied the 
cows' tails together, just to hear them bellow. On another occasion 
he set fire to a forest, all in sport, because he had no one to join him 
in better things. His stepmother scolded him and punished him so 
that he would frequently go away alone or join bad companions 
in mischief. Finally, one day, quarreling with a man, he killed him 
because of his greater strength. 

Fearing to return home, he wandered in strange lands, sometimes 
working for his living, and sometimes living on what was given him. 
Wherever he went people admired his broad shoulders and manly 
form, for he was giantlike in size. 

One day he heard of the Emperor of Germany, who was king 
and the mightiest man in all the world. As Christopher admired and 
worshiped strength, he wanted to see and to serve the Emperor. 
At last after long journeys he came and stood before the German 
Emperor and offered his services. The Emperor was at that time 
waging wars for his kingdom, and when he saw Christopher, giant- 
like and strong, he admired him and readily accepted his services, 
taking him along as a bodyguard. Christopher was delighted and 
threw his whole strength into the service of the Emperor and did 
many wonderful deeds. 

So strong was Christopher that frequently he would bear on his 
shoulders great logs, place them across gullies and ravines and build 
a bridge for the army to pass over. The Emperor frequently talked 
with him and encouraged him, all of which immensely pleased Chris- 
topher, for he thought, "I have at last found him who is most worthy 
of worship and service." 

But on one occasion as the Emperor was riding near a forest, 
Christopher noticed that the Emperor made the sign of the cross 
and turned aside from the dark forest and went in another direction. 
Christopher said to the Emperor: "Why did you turn back from the 
forest?" The Emperor said: "The devil lives in that forest and I 
fear him." "What," said Christopher, "afraid.^^ I thought that you 
were afraid of nothing!" But the Emperor said: "This demon of 
darkness is very strong and I fear him." Then Christopher said: 
"If you are afraid I wish to leave your service and join myself to the 

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devil, because I do not want to serve any but tlic strongest." Where- 
upon the Emperor paid Christopher his wages and reluctantly parted 
with him. 

Christopher turned his face toward the dark forest, plunged into 
its depths, and finally found a black altar, whereon the devil had 
sacrificed the bodies of people. Hard by he found the devil and offered 
his services to him. Right gladly the devil took him into his fellow- 
ship, and straightway took him on trips of deviltry and mischief. 
But one day they came along by a hill iii an Eastern land. On the 
top of the hill there stood three crosses. The devil turned aside as 
if in fear. Christopher was quick to notice this and he said to the 
devil : 

"Why are you afraid?" 

Then the devil said: "On that middle cross was crucified a man 
who is greater than I, and I fear him." 

"What," Christopher said, "you afraid? Why, then, I am done 
with, you; I want to serve him who is not afraid." 

And so he parted from the devil and as he went away the devil 
laughed and mocked him. Christopher wandered a long time, inquir- 
ing here and there for the man who had died upon the cross. Finally, 
one day he found a priest, who lived in a cave that opened upon a 
beautiful river. Tired, footsore and weary, he sat down at the invi- 
tation of the priest, who brought him refreshing water from the 
spring and gave him food. After he had rested a moment, he said to 
the priest: "Can you tell me about the man who died on the cross?" 
for Christopher had never heard of this man until the devil had told 
him. "Yes," said the priest, "right gladly will I tell you the story of 
his life." 

Then the priest told Christopher how the man of Galilee had 
lived, and toiled, and suffered to make the world better; how he was 
crucified, died, and rose again. The story was a new and beautiful 
one to Christopher, the wonder of it! The priest told him that though 
this man was dead, his spirit was still in the world to make the world 
better. Then Christopher said to the priest: 'He is the one that I 
wish to serve. How can I serve him?" Then the priest said: "You 
see this river .^^ — there is no bridge for the people to cross; it is wide 
and at times dangerous. If you would serve hini, help those who try 

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to cross the river. You are tall, with broad shoulders and mighty 
strength. Day after day people as they travel through this land come 
to this river but cannot cross — you can help them across, and in that 
way you will serve him who, though dead, still lives." 

That pleased Christopher so that he built a house of logs and 
boughs by the river's side, and when people came to the river he would 
wade through the water, take them on his shoulders and bear them 
across. Years passed by; Christopher grew grey in the service of 
humanity and his Master. Those who saw him day after day admired 
him and looked for him and he became a friend of all the country, 
loved by all. 

One dark night when Christopher lay upon his bed, he heard 
some one calling, like the voice of a child: "Oh! Christopher, kind, 
good Christopher, come help me across!" Christopher arose from his 
bed and seizing his great staff, waded through the water until he 
reached the other side of the river, but there he found no one; all 
was silent, save the ripple and murnuir of the waves along the river's 
margin. "Strange," he said, "I thought I heard some one calling." 

After looking all around, he said: "I must have been mistaken," 
and waded back through the water to the other side of the river and 
lay down upon his couch again. But soon thereafter he heard the 
same voice calling: "Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come 
help me across!" "Strange," said Christopher to himself, "some one 
must be there," and seizing his staff he again crossed the river. 

But no one could he find, all was silent. Above his head the 
stars shone, and he said to himself: "Strange it is I cannot find him 
who called me." 

He went across the river and laid down upon his bed again. He 
had not been lying there long before he heard the voice calling him 
a third time: "Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come 
help me across!" Christopher sat upon his bed — he was troubled. 
"Strange," he said, "some one calls me and yet I cannot find him." 
But again seizing his staff he said: "I will make one more trip." 
When he reached the other side of the river, there he saw a little boy, 
and he said: "My little man, where were you, — twice I crossed the 
river to find you?" The little boy said: "I was here." And then 
Christopher bent low and took the little man upon his shoulders 

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and waded through the water, but the boy grew heavier until he 
seemed as heavy as a man. When Christopher reached the other side 
and put him down and turned to look to see why, what seemed to be 
a little child should be so heavy — lo! he was more than a child; a 
young man in appearance, with a shining face, and he said to Chris- 
topher: "I am he whom you serve; bury your staff and after a 
certain number of days buds will appear thereon." Then he dis- 
appeared, vanishing as a mist, or as a shadow, though Christopher 
saw not. He went and lay down upon his couch and slept in great 
peace of mind and body. 

Years passed. Christopher was still beloved by all the people 
and faithful to his work, but his days were numbered. Though some- 
what feeble, he still bore the people on his shoulders across the river. 
One dark stormy night, when the wind roared through the treetops 
and the rain fell, Christopher, lying upon his bed, heard a voice call. 
He tried to rise and answer; he did go in response to the voice, but 
it was his spirit only that went, the last call had come to him. 

The next morning the storm was gone and the sky was blue. 
People came to cross the river and called as usual to Christopher, 
but there was no response. They thought perhaps he was asleep 
and went to the cottage. There they found him — asleep, but it was 
the long sleep. And a smile was on his face. Because of his service 
to the people they afterwards called him Saint Christopher. 



SOULS THAT HAVE TOIL'D AND WROUGHT AND THOUGHT 
WITH ME— 
THAT EVER WITH A FROLIC WELCOME TOOK 
THE THUNDER AND THE SUNSHINE, AND OPPOSED 
FREE HEARTS, FREE FOREHEADS— YOU AND I ARE OLD; " 
OLD AGE HATH YET HIS HONOR AND HIS TOIL, 
DEATH CLOSES ALL: BUT SOMETHING ERE THE END, 
SOME WORK OF NOBLE NOTE MAY YET BE DONE, 
NOT UNBECOMING MEN THAT STROVE WITH GODS. 
THE LIGHTS BEGIN TO TWINKLE FROM THE ROCKS: 
THE LONG DAY WANES: THE SLOW MOON CLIMBS: THE DEEP 
MOANS ROUND WITH MANY VOICES. 

Tennyson. 

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Ol)e Storip of €n9lan6'5 JHrst 

^p (Beor^e ^^lUf> TKrapp 

ON the nortliern coast of England In the town of Whitby (White- 
town) was built a monastery many centuries ago by a woman 
whose name was Hild; and when the monastery was completed 
she became the abbess. In this monastery ruled over by the Abbess 
Hild, there were not only monks and nuns, but also a number of 
servants and helpers who had not devoted themselves to the religious 
life. Among these was a poor herdsman whose name was Cadmon. 
He could neither read nor write, and his work in the monastery con- 
sisted in taking care of the cows and other cattle which were needed 
to supply the monastery table with milk and butter. 

Now it was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to 
entertain themselves, when the day's work was done, by sitting 
around the fire telling stories and singing songs. Among other amuse- 
ments they had one especially which is known as "passing the harp." 
According to this custom, the harp was passed along from one person 
to another, and as it came each man's turn, he took the harp and sang 
a song to its accompaniment. Most people in those days knew many 
stories which they could recite in this way, but unfortunately for 
Cadmon, this was an accomplishment which he could never learn. 
Consequently when he saw the harp approaching him, he would get 
up and leave the circle, ashamed to confess that he could not sing a 
song as the others had done. 

It happened that one night Cadmon left the group of his friends 
in this way, as he had often done before, and went into the stable 
where he was to pass the night watching the cattle. After a time he 
fell asleep. As he lay sleeping, he heard a voice calling to him, which 

Reprinted by permission from "In Oldest England" by George Philip Krapp. Copyright, 
1912, by Longmans, Green & Co. 

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said: "Cadmoii, sing for me." Then Cadmon answered the voice, 
saying: 'T cannot sing; and it is for that reason that I have left the 
company of my friends and have come hither." "Nevertheless, I 
say you must sing for me," the voice continued. "What shall I 
sing?" asked Cadmon. "Sing for me," the voice answered, "the 
story of how all things were created." And then Cadmon, greatly to 
his own astonishment, found that he was able to sing, and he began 
to sing the praises of God the Creator in verses which he had never 
heard before. 

The next morning, when Cadmon awoke from the sleep in which 
he had had this dream or vision, the strangest part of it was that he 
remembered perfectly what he had sung in his sleep during the night, 
and better still, he was able to add other verses to these. He told 
what had happened to him to his master, and his master went directly 
to Abbess Hild and repeated the story to her. Hild immediately 
called Cadmon to her, and, sending for several learned monks, she 
bade them recite a passage of Scripture in English to Cadmon, and 
then she asked Cadmon to turn what he had heard into verse. The 
next morning Cadmon came back and recited to her in perfect and 
melodious verse all that he had been told by the learned monks. Then 
Hild immediately perceived that this poor cowherd in her monastery 
was possessed of a very precious gift. She gave orders that he should 
be accepted as a monk into her monastery, and that the other monks 
should teach him all the story of the Bible. This was so done, and 
being unable to read, Cadmon learned all the stories of the Bible by 
having them told to him, and then he turned them into poetical form. 
The monks were glad to write down the poems as Cadmon recited 
them, and thus together they put into verse the whole story of the 
creation of the world, of the fall of man, of the children of Israel and 
the Exodus out of Egypt into the Promised Land, and many other 
stories contained in the Bible. 

For many years Cadmon continued to live in the monastery 
at Whitby, making noble use of this poet's gift that had been granted 
to him. And it was here at Whitby that he finally died. He had been 
unwell for several weeks before his death, but it was not supposed 
that his sickness was serious. One night, however, the night on which 
he died, he asked his nurse to take him to the infirmary, which was 

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It was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to sing songs 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



the part of the monastery where those brothers who were danger- 
ously sick and on the point of death were usually cared for together. 
The man was surprised that Cadmon should want to be taken to the 
infirmary, but he did as he was asked to do. Cadmon seemed to 
be bright and happy, and talked cheerfully with the other sick people 
in the infirmary. When it was about midnight, he asked if the Eucha- 
rist was there in the infirmary. *' Why do you ask that?" his friends 
said. "You are not so near to death that you need ask for the Eucha- 
rist." But Cadmon asked for the Eucharist again, and when he had 
it in his hand he inquired whether they were all kindly disposed and 
at peace with him. When they said they were, then Cadmon con- 
tinued: "And I, too, am at peace with all men." Having made his 
last communion, he asked if the time was near when the brothers of 
the monastery should arise and say the prayers known as nocturns. 
"It is almost time," they answered. "Let us then wait for it," he 
said; and blessing himself with the sign of the cross, he lay back upon 
his pillow, and so falling asleep, as peacefully and as gently as he 
had lived, he passed to his final rest. 

This is the simple story of the blameless life of the first English 
poet whose name has come down to us. Other poets there must have 
been before Cadmon, poets who sang the stories of the bloody com- 
bats of English heroes before the days of Augustine and Aidan. From 
the very earliest times the English have had their bards or minstrels, 
whose task it was to keep alive the fame of the nation's great men. 
But not even the names of any of these earlier heathen poets are known 
to us, and but a few fragments of their songs have survived to our day. 
These songs were of the kind which Cadmon could not sing, but which 
his companions, at their feasts and banquets, all sang so freely to the 
accompaniment of the harp. This heathen minstrelsy is now all lost 
and silent, while down through the ages the clear voice of Cadmon is 
heard, singing the old story of the Creation of the World and of the 
waj'S of God to man. From Cadmon to Milton it is a thousand years, 
but the poor cowherd who became the chief ornament of Hild's ancient 
monastery on the cliff above Wliitby sang his songs in the same spirit 
as the author of "Paradise Lost." 



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Ol)^ ''Kucle t^emus" Stories 

^^elr Evolution anb ^ lace in t^e (Turrtculum 

Part One 

'^^IHE fame of the "Uncle Remus" stories, according to Joel Chandler 
^-^ Harris, himself, was an accident. But it is quite possible, that the 
fame has not been quite as much of an accident as his modesty de- 
clares it to be. 

Mr. Harris was the son of a very poor woman in Georgia. She had 
very little to give her children, and very early Joel Chandler was put out 
to work. When, but a mere lad, he went to work as printer boy on the 
plantation of Mr. Joseph A. Turner. Mr. Turner was a well educated and 
cultured gentleman, who spent his leisure hours in publishing (on his own 
plantation) a small paper, voicing the sentiment of the times. 

Mr. Turner became very much interested in the Harris boy. He 
recognized the lad's ability, for very frequently he found unsigned para- 
graphs, quite good in quality, in his paper, which had been composed by 
the printer boy Harris, who inserted them as he set up the type. Mr. 
Turner gave the boy free access to his very large and splendid library. 
When Joel Chandler was not seated, during leisure hours, in the chimney 
corner of a cabin in the negro quarters, listening to negro folk-lore, he was 
delving deep into the best literature of all ages. He lived so completely 
with the great masters in the library, that it is said, that this quite largely 
influenced his charming literary style in years to come. 

Here on the plantation, in the negro cabins, he came, through the 
stories, to feel the emotions of the negro. No one has ever been so capable 
of putting himself in another's place as has Joel Chandler Harris. He 
became possessed of all the curious knowledge of the negro, he learned of 
dogs and horses, he knew the path of the red stream in the swamp, and the 
way of the wild folk in the woods. In fact, one writer has gone so far as 

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to say, that had Joel Chandler Harris not spent these boyhood days in the 
plantation home of Joseph A. Turner, there would have been no "Uncle 
Remus" with all that he now means to literature. 

In 1876, Mr. Harris was invited to take a place on the paper called 
"The Constitution," published at Atlanta, Georgia. Samuel Small was 
then writing humorous sketches for this paper. Small suddenly resigned. 
His sketches had been very popular, and the editor immediately looked 
around for some one who could continue the work. Mr. Harris was given 
the place. He went about his new task with much foreboding. He was 
steeped in the quaint stories of the plantation, but would the people accept 
these? He resolved to make the attempt, and then came the Uncle Remus 
stories for their first appearance. 

The stories grew in popularity, and for the same reason that made 
yEsop's fables an imperishable classic, these stories have taken their perma- 
nent place in literature. They were the simple stories that had been linked 
with the thoughts and emotions since earliest time, and have now, for the 
first time, been put in artistic form, by one who had so entered into the 
life of the negro, that he was able to express the negro's emotions in the 
negro's way. In quoting from an article on Joel Chandler Harris in "The 
Bookman," Volume 27, the author says, "When Mr. Harris chose for his 
subject, the plantation negro, he had a character of much subtility to deal 
with. His subject is a creature of extremes, carelessly happy one day, 
deeply despondent the next, which characteristic has sprung from his very 
helplessness; with a never failing sense of humor, which acts as a continual 
balance wheel. He is a being, whose mystical side has been highly de- 
veloped, and one to whom the "creeturs" have become brothers and sisters, 
being endowed by him, with human virtues and vices. 

"Uncle Remus" gave to literature and the world a new type of negro, 
that of a good kind-hearted, sympathetic old man, who was willing to spend 
hours in telling stories to a little boy. So Httle is said of Uncle Remus 
himself. He is merely the teller of the stories and yet one feels him to be 
just such an old man, for his character is interpreted by the stories he tells. 
Indeed, some one once asked the author, "Mr. Harris, really, don't you 
suppose that Uncle Remus would steal chickens if he had a chance?" and 
Mr. Harris replied, " If I follow Uncle Remus all day, you surely can't ex- 
pect me to know what he does all night." 

Joel Chandler Harris in writing his "Uncle Remus" stories, did not 

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labor to place them in logical sequence. He cared little about their value 
to students of comparative folk-lore, and had little notion of their evolution 
when he wrote them. The series cannot be placed into one great cycle that 
follows a hero through a number of incidents and at last brings him to the 
end, victorious. Mr. Harris told them for the pure enjoyment, and he 
was much surprised to find such a demand for a thing that was all pleasure 
and no work to him. He loved the simple tales because they were so near 
to nature's heart, because they were full of primitive wonder, quaint flashes 
of humor, homely philosophy, and simple goodness. 

The stories, however, readily group themselves into four classes. 

I. Those that account for Certain Animal Traits, or Characteristics. 
II. Stories with Brer Rabbit as a Hero. 

III. Those stories told to the little Boy for their Ethical Value. 

IV. Stories that attempt to Account for some Natural Phenomena. 
Under the first group. Stories that account for certain animal char- 
acteristics, I have placed the following: 



Why the Hawk Catches Chickens. 

Miss Partridge has a Fit. 

WTiy Brer Possum has no Hair on his Tail. 

Why Brer Fox's Legs are Black. 



Why Mr. Possum Loves Peace. 

WTiy Brother Bull Growls and Complains. 

How Mr. Rabbit Lost His Fine Bushy Tail. 

Mr. Terrapin Shows His Strength. 

Brer Buzzard Teaches Brer Terrapin to Fly. 



The stories that show the shrewdness of Brer Rabbit, might be taken 
as a small cycle which has Brer Rabbit as a hero. 
The following are examples: 



The Wonderful Tar Baby Story. 

Old Mr. Rabbit, He's a good Fisherman. 

Brer Rabbit and de' skeeters. 

Brer Fox Says Grace. 

Brer Rabbit Has Fun at the Ferry. 

Why Brer Wolf didn't eat the little Rabbits. 



Brer Fox "Smells Smoke." 

Brer Rabbit Frightens Brer Tiger. 

Brer Rabbit Conquers Mr. Lion. 

Heyo House. 

Sis Cow Falls a Victim to Mr. Rabbit. 

How Mr. Rabbit Saved his Meat. 

The Sad Fate of Mr. Fox. 

Brer Rabbit Nibbles up de Butter. 



The third group of stories that were told to the little boy for their 
ethical value, presents quite a modern idea of the purpose of a good story; 
namely, that in order to teach, a moral must be tacked on. When Uncle 
Remus found the little boy in mischief, he straightway told him a story 
with a homely moral. As for example the story of " Brother Bear and the 
Honey Orchard." Uncle Remus caught the little boy eating a great piece 

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of cake, while his little brother stood by, crying for some. 'Tis then that 
he relates of the selfishment of Brer B'ar with his own conclusion, that 
"to his membrence stingy folks nevah come to no good 'een." 
The following stories were told with this idea in mind: 



Brother Bear and the Honey Orchard. 
The Man and the Wild Cattle. 
Brer Babbit's Money Mint. 



Brother Billy Goat's Dinner. 
The King that talked Biggity. 
According to how the Drap Falls. 



Under the fourth heading I have grouped such stories as: 

The Story of the Deluge and how it came about. 

Where the Hurricane Comes from. 

The Creation. 

Why the Negro is Black. 

No one can doubt but that these simple stories were first told when the 
human race was very young. The things that are at present accomplished 
by science were then met by magic. Whether or not we believe that the 
child in his development passes through much the same experience as the 
race has in its development, there are certain things that are evident: the 
child makes human and holds conversation with everything in his backyard 
world. The same voices speak to him that spoke to his cave dwelling 
ancestors. To him the wind is a person of might and power, that moans 
when in anguish and sighs when weary. 

{To be concluded in next issue) 



Olje Ol)ree (Boats 

^^ 3<issica (ri)il6s 

This story, contributed by Miss Jessica Childs of the Pittsburgh (Pa.) Training School 
for Teachers, is a translation from the Norse Folk Lore. It is very popular. Miss Childs finds, 
with children in the first school year. 

VVOW you shall hear! 

■^ •■ There was once a Boy who had three Goats. All day they 
leaped and pranced and skipped and climbed up on the rocky hill, 
but at night the Boy drove them home. One night, when he went 
to meet them, the frisky things leaped into a turnip field and he could 

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not get them out. Then the Boy sat down on the hillside and cried. 

As he sat there a Hare came along. "Why do you cry?" asked 
the Hare. 

'T cry because I can't get the Goats out of the field," answered 
the Boy. 

"I'll do it," said the Hare. So he tried, but the Goats would not 
come. Then the Hare, too, sat down and cried. 

Along came a Fox. 

"Why do you cry?" asked the Fox. 

"I am crying because the Boy cries," said the Hare; "and the 
Boy is crying because he cannot get the Goats out of the turnip field." 

"I'll do it," said the Fox. So the Fox tried, but the Goats would 
not come. Then the Fox also sat down and cried. 

Soon after, a W^oK came along. "Why do you cry," asked the 
Wolf. "I am crying because the Hare cries," said the Fox; "and 
the Hare cries because the Boy cries; and the Boy cries because he 
can't get the Goats out of the turnip field." 

"I'll do it," said the Wolf. He tried, but the Goats would not 
leave the field. So he sat down beside the others and began to cry too. 

After a while, a Bee flew over the hill and saw them all sitting 
there crying. " Why do you cry? " said the Bee to the Wolf. 

"I am crying because the Fox cries, and the Fox cries because the 
Hare cries; and the Hare cries because the Boy cries; and the Boy cries 
because he can't get the Goats out of the turnip field." 

"I'll do it," said the Bee. 

Then the big animals and the Boy all stopped crying a moment 
to laugh at the tiny Bee. He to do it, indeed, when they could not! 
But the tiny Bee flew away into the turnip field and lit upon the ear 
of one of the Goats and said, 

"Buz-z-z-z-z!" And out ran the Goats every one! 



" (^^^ child makes human and holds conversation with everything in his backyard 
^-^ world, 
" The same voices speak to him that spoke to his cave-dwelling ancestors. 
" To him the wind is a person of might and power, that moans when in anguish 
and sighs when weary." — Josephine Leach. 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 

Stor^ Oelllng In ^a5l)ington,^. (T* 

^^ yUariana StocKar6 



15' 



^O the Kindergarten perhaps more than to any other department of 

education, must be conceded the credit for having recognized the 
power of the story in the hfe of the child. The best Kindergarten 
training schools would no more omit a well organized course in story telling 
than they would a course in psychology or child study, so it is with no claim 
of something new or different that I respond to the invitation of the Story- 
tellers' Magazine to tell of the work as it is done in the Washington 
Normal School. 

We are fortunate in having a Principal who has been willing to allow 
a full two years' course in stories. This makes possible a broader literary 
basis, better developed principles of selection, more of adaptation and prac- 
tical story telling than could be accomplished in a shorter time. It also 
makes possible a more leisurely, more psychologic approach to the subject, 
and therefore launches us upon the actual story telling with much of the 
beginner's painful self-consciousness eliminated. 

My first question to a new class is, " What have you read and really 
enjoyed during your past summer?" Next, "What are your favorite books?" 
Through a careful study of the students' responses to these questions I gain 
a knowledge of the literary background and taste of each individual of 
whom I shall strive to make a successful story teller. 

Discussion of these books which the students know and like leads us 
into the field of basic principles of selection in literature. Brief studies 
of a few typical short stories, analysis of purpose, structure, and style 
follow. 

Realizing that the two absolute essentials in a successful story teller 
are, on the one hand, a sympathetic knowledge of the best in literature, and 
on the other, real understanding of the child, we read together as much 
of the best literature about children as time permits. 

Our first approach to the story for the child is through a discussion 
of favorite fairy tales, remembered from the student's own childhood. 

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Comparison shows that there are many common favorites, further study 
reveals these same stories as favorites of generations of children. 

Re-telling and enjoying these we gradually search out the secret of 
their universal appeal and come to formulate a standard embodying the 
essential characteristics which all stories for children should contain. 

This knowledge of type stories is further developed by a brief study 
of Norse Myths and Folk Tales. No other literature gives quite so well 
the fundamental characteristics of action, simplicity and embodiment of 
ideals, as does the Norse. The student who has read Mabie's Norse Myths, 
Dasent's Popular Tales from the Norse, Stories from Bjornstern and Selma 
Lagerlof, absorbs the essential characteristics of the best story and can 
scarcely help telling a story with vigor, simplicity, directness and imagi- 
native appeal. 

Sympathetic attitude toward child and story and basis for selection 
of stories in the light of fundamental principles of literature having been 
developed, we next formulate the requisites of a good story teller and 
methods of story telling. This is done through story telling in class under 
criticism and a study of such books as: Voice and Spiritual Education, by 
Corson; How to Tell Stories to Children, by Sara Cone Bryant; Stories and 
Story Telling, by Porter St. John. We study, re-tell, adapt, and collect in 
a manuscript story book such stories as are particularly suitable for use 
in the kindergarten. 

The demand for story tellers in the schools, in playground and 
library work, in social centers and Sunday schools, led to the establishing 
of a course in story telling and children's literature at George Washington 
University. This course is credited both in the teacher's department and 
in the English department of the University. 

The work consists of lectures, required readings and reports. The 
history of the story, its relation to literature, its relation to the child, the 
story as a moral force, methods of story telling, including adaptation, 
preparation, and presentation are a few of the topics discussed. Studies of 
groups of animal stories, folk and fairy tales, hero tales, Bible stories, 
Christmas and Thanksgiving stories, spring stories and humorous stories 
constitute the content of the course. 

Every student of children's stories not only gains a deeper appreciation 
of the best in literature and an added sympathy with and understanding of 
the child, but also discovers an inexhaustible source of usefulness and joy. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Stor^ Oelling; for (Tamp JHre (SirU 

^^ TEllen Kate (bvoss 

Chief Guardian, Children's Playground Association of Baltimore, Md. 



Apropos to our conversation at the Richmond Congress in regard to 
stories for Camp Fire Girls, the following plea is submitted to your editorial 
board with the hope that your splendid magazine will help us in one phase 
of our work. 

In furthering the development of the Camp Fire Girls, there arises 
the necessity for a supply of Indian folk tales well told and embodying the 
out-of-door spirit of the Indian and his ideals. Moreover the various 
points of the law of the Camp Fire can best be exemplified through stories 
which develop the ideal held up. This law is to 



" Seek beauty 
Give service 
Pursue knowledge 



Hold on to health 
Glorify work 
Be happy" 



The following suggestive list may illustrate how this method can be 
carried out, — the thought and meaning of each precept being developed 
through one of the stories named. 

SEEK BEAUTY 

Hawthorne, "The Great Stone Face." 
Kingsley, "Water Babies" — in parts. 

GIVE SERVICE 

Robert Louis Stevenson, "Prince Otto." 

Stockton, "Old Pypes and the Dryad," in Fanciful Tales. 

Biographies and Autobiographies. 

Example "Florence Nightingale." 
" Lucretia Mott. " 
"The Little Hero of Haarlem" 
Emile Poulsson, "Nahum Prince," in "In the Child's World." 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



BE TRUSTWORTHY 

"Ruth and Esther," told in Hamilton Mabie's "Stories Every 
Child Should Know." 

GLORIFY WORK 
19th Psalm. 

Lives of Burbank, Edison and other Inventors. 
"The Basket Weaver." 
"Beowulf," in Hamilton Mabie's "Legends Every Child Should 

Know." 
"The Message to Garcia," by Elbert Hubbard. 

BE HAPPY 

"King Midas." 

"Ugly Duckling." 

"Pine Tree that changed its Leaves." 

King Arthur tales. 

If some of these stories or similar ones, and also some Indian legends 
could be published in your magazine from time to time, it would be a great 
help to those who are working with Camp Fire Girls. 



"X2?ol)elo" 



"Wohelo," the musical cry of the Camp Fire Girls was sounded by 
more than nine hundred of them at the first Grand Council held in the 69th 
Regiment Armory, New York City, recently. 

Clad in the picturesque attire of the American Indian, they sat in a 
l)ig circle around three lighted candles, representing their three foundation 
principles, and groups of lights representing real camp fires, a Camp Fire 
ceremonial which is performed to the music of "Burn, Fire; Burn!" 

Under the supervision of the guardian Hiltini, who is Mrs. Luther H. 
Gulick, three other guardians, Mrs. Bradley, Mrs. Weber and Miss McCar- 
thy, representing respectively Work, Health, Love, lighted the camp 
fire by the Indian expedient of rubbing two sticks together. 

The call of the Camp Fire Girls, "Wohelo," is formed by the first 
s.yllables of the three foundation words of their organization: Work, 
Health, Love. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Ol)e 4^la^ Spirit in America 



'^IHOSE who have lost the play spirit are beginning to 
^"'^die. These were the words of Dr. Cabot of the Massa- 
chusetts General Hospital of Boston at the recent Congress 
of the Playground and Recreation Association of America, 
held at Richmond, Va. True recreation is re-creation — to 
be made anew from day to day, mind and body. The 
old saying that all work and no play makes Jack a dull 
boy is true of adults as well as children. It is more important 
that adults emphasize recreation for themselves than for the 
child. It is so much easier for grown people to forget to play. 

-The serious person is only half awake. Seriousness often 
excludes humor and thus shuts out the play spirit in life. The 
serious person is not always thoroughly in earnest. He who 
excludes humor and play cannot be in earnest because he does 
not use all the resources at his command. Young people are 
alwaj^s earnest; play and humor are part of their program. 

The calculating business man sitting in his close office or 
the hard taskmaster sitting at a teacher's desk may be making 
a living and yet not living but prematurely dying. Compare 
such a one with a group of young people who shout and laugh 
in joyous play or work outside and ask yourself which is prefer- 
able, which is life? The business man once had the play spirit 
but he has lost it, and with it life and its joy. When he went 
to school years ago he was not taught to live but to calculate; 
not to think but to imitate and accumulate a living, not a life. 
He has been true to his teaching. He might be rescued even 
now if he could be made to see the necessity for play and feel 
the rejuvenating effect of rhythmic games. He must get rid of 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



the idea that it is undignified for a grown man or woman to 
play, to join hands in a circle, to shout and laugh and sing and 
play games on the green. 

The American people must be taught recreation, not only 
in public playgrounds but the necessity of using home, lawn and 
yard for play for child and adult as well. We must get rid of the 
idea that people are made for parks and substitute the idea, 
parks are made for people. 

A one-time city superintendent of schools in a large city 
and for a number of years a college president recently spent a 
year on his farm and says that as a result his whole feeling and 
view toward life has been changed by the year of recreation. 
To have normal feelings is more important than abnormal 
knowledge. Knowledge is sometimes weakness rather than 
power. 

A child without a playground is the father of a man without 
a job, says one of our playground officials, and we might add 
that a man without play will soon be a man without a job and 
without health. It is high time that school faculties realize 
their sin in failing themselves to play. Enthusiastic teachers 
often study and teach all the winter, then go to a summer school 
and pile on more of the same kind of work. We recognize the 
evil of this, yet few are brave enough to stop in the midst of 
work and play and teach play. Summer schools should send 
their students back home rejuvenated, with renewed health 
and enthusiasm and with a new feeling for life rather than 
book-burdened, tired and nervous. 

We have in America a wealth of folk-games, folk-dances, 
folk-songs, folk-stories brought hither by the various races of 
Europe, that would give us wholesome recreation, — a folk- 
culture, yet we stand idly by and let an ignorant commercial 
schemer run a dance hall and give our young people dissipation 

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THE STORYTELLERS* MAGAZINE 



instead of recreation. Churches and homes make a great mis- 
take when they say "Don't do this" or that and stop there. 
We must be positive and say *'Do this, these are the games to 
play, these are the songs to sing, these are the stories to tell, 
come and join us." If good people do not give us good recrea- 
tion, bad people will give us bad recreation and make us pay 
for it. A machine can add a column of figures for us, another 
person can spell a word for us, but no one else can recreate or 
have health, personality and enthusiasm for us. R. T. W. 



3nvocalxon 

■"•StTATHER, make us glad that we are here, glad in the dear fellowships 
^J of the past, glad in the strong ties that bind us to our tasks, glad of 
the tasks. O Thou Burden Giver, lift us above the selfishness of the 
ease-seeker. 

^ Father, we come to listen to Thy commissions. Grant us power to go 
into the dark places of human lives, the sad places of human hearts, and in 
Thy name speak the word that may bring strength, peace, consolation. 
Father, help us to realize the opportunities that await us; gird us anew 
for the high and holy warfare wherein the weapons are the instruments of 
love, the counters of kindness. Help us to forget the things that hurt, to 
rise above all discouragements, to dwell with Thee in deathless places; 
to rejoice with Thee in the boundless realms where the petty lines of caste, 
class and sect, of race and prejudice, do not obtain, but where Thy children, 
conscious of Thy Fatherhood, rejoice in the largeness of the love that includes 
all races, all climes, and all ages. 

^ Father, take our hands and touch them with usefulness. Take our 
feet that they may be shod with willingness. Take our hearts that they 
may glow with kindness. Take our minds and tutor them in the way of 
truth. Take our voices and tune them to the universal harmonies, that in 
finite time we may sound some notes of thy never-ending song. Amen 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



X^l)al tl)e 1^<ia3ue5 are iDoing 

The closing meeting of the Knickerbocker Story Tellers' League of New 
York City, for the season 1913, was held on Saturday evening. May 17th. 

The recent work of the League has been directed along the lines of 
the English, Spanish and American Schools of Art. At a previous meeting 
the stories of the Florentine, Flemish and Dutch Schools were told and no 
actual reading was done throughout the entire evening. Mrs. Estelle 
Davis Burt, the President, handled the topic Dutch Art. 

The last meeting of the Atlanta Story Tellers' League is reported by 
Mr. George B. Hinman as the most interesting of the year. 

Mrs. Goodman gave a very charming and illuminating account of her 
visit with Mr. R. T. Wyche to the Knickerbocker Story Tellers' League 
in New York, and Mrs. Stevens told a most interesting original story, 
which held her audience spellbound throughout. Miss Ray Klein, who is 
one of the friends of the League, told a beautiful fairy story. The attend- 
ance was large and appreciative. 

The Story Tellers' League of Little Rock, Arkansas, held its closing 
meeting at the public library in May, when the following officers were 
elected: Miss Eliza Hockins, president; Miss Grace Boyce, vice-president; 
Miss Johnnie Bledsoe, secretary and treasurer. The program was excellent. 
Miss Marguerite English told of "The Hall of Heroes"; Mrs. L. W. Cherry 
told an Egyptian legend, adding to the beautiful story by touches of per- 
sonal experience in Egypt; Mrs. W. B. Rawlings told the story of a Syrian 
mother; Miss Abbie Whitcomb gave the story of a Parisian boy hero in 
her usual expressive way. 

A conference was held May 27, 1913, at the Sinton Hotel from three to 
five, with Dr. Richard Wyche, President of the National Story Tellers' 
League of New York, who has started a magazine for the benefit of story 
tellers, entitled "The Storytellers' Magazine." Dr. Lester Riley, Miss 
Pearl Carpenter, Miss Alice Adele Folger, Miss Annie Laws, Miss Marie 
Dickore, Miss Josephine Simrall and others of the Cincinnati branch of 
the National Story Tellers' League were present. — Cincinnati Commercial 
Tribune. 

106 



The revival of interest in story telling on the part of edu- 
cators today is due perhaps more to scientific men than any 
other group. The old conception of the child was that he was 
born in depravity and therefore his natural impulses were bad, 
and he should be repressed. Methods of suppression resulted; 
the child had no rights. If the things he was compelled to 
study were meaningless and obnoxious to him, well and good. 
The things he was interested in were ignored. 

But with the coming of the biologist, geologist, and psy- 
chologist, we have seen a world of growth and change, reaching 
back into the immeasurable past, and man in this order, not 
fallen and depraved, but natural and normal with his face 
to the morning, ever moving upward and onward. The students 
of history, primitive art and folk-literature have traced for us 
the path-way along which the soul of the race, ever growing 
into self-realization gave expression to its beliefs, its hopes, its 
prayers and its religion, in mj^th, fairy story, folk-lore and folk 
epic. As one who travels through low land and forest yet ever 
climbing reaches an upland peak and looking back sees path, 
forest, field and rim of sea all in the perspective of beauty, so 
we today looking back have an infinitely larger and deeper 
view of life and its meaning. It is this view that has changed 
our attitude toward the child and will result in our setting 
him, "the last serf of civilization free." 

This new valuation of the child, respect for his rights and 
a better understanding of his needs has brought story telling 
to the front again. It is true that the race and the individual 
of all races have had stories told them more or less by troubadour 
and rhapsodist — the old story tellers, chief among them Homer, 
but not until modern times have educators so seriously studied 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



this story as a means of education. For many centuries litera- 
ture lived orally and was handed down by the story tellers; 
but when printing was invented the teacher began to busy 
himself with grammar for young and old alike, until language 
form became an end instead of a means. 

Man in his development did not invent letters and language 
with the hope that he might have something to say, but he had 
so much to say he was compelled to invent language in order 
to express himself. So with the child, we must feed the springs 
of imagination and emotion if we would give him something 
to express. As a tree puts forth leaf and blossom in obedience 
to the laws of life within, so will the child give back in vital 
expression the things that nurture his inner life. Expression 
is life, suppression is death. It is the recognition of this truth 
that has given us the pedagogical basis for the story, whether 
it be re-telling, dramatization or illustration of the story; mod- 
elling into clay, carving into wood or motiving in life. 

Man becomes like that which he admires, therefore, stories 
of noble deed and great heroes are used in school and Sunday- 
school for character building in place of memorizing abstract 
statements. 

Young people will read books from which interesting stories 
have been told them, therefore many of the public libraries 
have a story teller for the children's room, who by story telling, 
directs the reading of the children for a whole community. 
Story telling is a means of recreation and pure pleasure, there- 
fore the public playgrounds throughout the land have their 
story tellers for the young people. Parents who tell in their 
homes the right kind of stories make an atmosphere in which a 
soul can grow and bind their off-spring to them with spiritual 
ties, the most lasting of all. 

Story telling is an alluring subject for study, a means of 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



delightful social intercourse and reinforcement for life, there- 
fore many have organized themselves into the National Story 
Tellers' League and its local branches. 

It is to deal with this work of story telhng in all of its aspects 
that the Storytellers' Magazine is founded. It is our purpose 
to point out as far as we can the vital principles that underlie 
the whole movement. 

The question of what stories to tell is supremely important. 
We cannot tell or read one-hundredth part of the good stories. 
In order to answer this question, we propose to re-tell in the 
pages of the magazine some of the best stories recognized by 
educators the world over; and by articles from specialists, 
point out the stories most worth while from the standpoint 
of literature. It is true we shall deal as do the oral story 
tellers with much of the old literature but with a creative 
touch that will give it the breath of life, making it a living 
literature and a new expression of American life and art. 

We propose to answer the question of what stories to tell 
by a study of the child and his needs in the various periods 
of his development. Stories that contribute most to the 
making of ideal womanhood and manhood, in the last analysis, 
are the stories to emphasize. 

The ancient story teller who by fireside or in royal court 
told stories of their nation heroes like King Arthur, Siegfried or 
Ulysses had quite a simple and direct use for the story compared 
to the situation today. With the complexity of modern life 
the use of the story becomes far more rich and varied. We 
expect through short articles from authorities in this work to 
point out all legitimate uses of the story. 

Many a one has a gift for story telling but knows not how to 
use it. We shall have an occasional article by those who have 
made a success of story telling and can speak from experience. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



When we think of the many educational institutions and 
individual workers taking up this work of story telling, and 
when we see the many young men and women who could, if 
they but knew how, become evangels of the fine art of story 
telling, and when we hear the voices of the great multitudes 
of children in neglected country districts as well as cities, 
saying "tell us a story" surely there is an opportunity and a 
call to service for The Storytellers' Magazine. 

American thought is in a creative period. Old forms in 
education, art, religion and government are assuming new 
forms to fit new conditions. The story telling movement is 
one with this growing life. Let us make it a true expression 
of the Nation's best life. We are still young; much lies ahead 
of us. In the spirit of the great heroes of the old story 
books let us spread every sail, make for the mid-seas and 
discover lands not laid down in any chart. 



In this issue of The Storytellers' Magazine will be 
found the initial number of Miss Martin's admirable King 
Arthur Series, composed of twelve stories, as follows: 



1. Merlin and His Prophecies. 

2. How Arthur Won His Kingdom, 

3. How Arthur won His Sword "Ex- 
calibur," his Bride and his Round 
Table. 

4. The Adventures of Gareth — the 
Kitchen Knave. 

5. The Adventures of Geraint. 



6, 



The Adventures of Tristram, the 
Forest Knight. 

7. The Adventures of Launcelot of 
the Lake. 

8. The Dolorous Stroke. 

9. The Coming of Galahad. 

10. The Quest of the Sangreal. 

11. The Achieving of the Sangreal. 

12. The Passing of Arthur. 

At least one story will appear in each succeeding issue of 
the Magazine until the series is finished, and should space permit, 
possibly two stories will appear in some of the numbers. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



^l)e TFmmortal Stories 

They were told long before anybody had learned how to write them 
out, though most of the fairy tales which the children feed on now are of 
the second crop, to be sure. 

Dr. Greville MacDonald, writing in the Contemporary Review of "The 
Fairy Tale in Education," insists as strongly as Ruskin did upon the vital 
importance of the fairy story in the right kind of ministering to children. 
He regrets the tendency among the science worshipers to regard the fairy 
tale as a weed of superstition, to be pulled up and cast out with all such 
worn out beliefs. And he goes on: 

"The fairy tale is a wild flower. It is native to that pasture of 
aboriginal, uncultivated innocence wherein, among the roots of grass and 
flowers, the elemental passions dwell. . . . 

"Not the least important of these elemental passions is the individual 
sense of unity with the world beyond. It is dominant in all unspoiled 
peasant folk, and dormant when not dominant in all children. It takes 
concrete form in folk-lore, folk-song and folk-dance. It throve fearlessly 
in the thirteenth century painters, in the Gothic masons and glass stainers 
of the great cathedrals. It is, indeed, the elemental gift in whose atmos- 
phere and inspiration the true art grows. Hence comes the child's fellow 
feeling with all simple life — his clutching at the flower, his delight in kitten, 
bird or butterfly. These are fellow creatures all, allies in "effort and 
expectation and desire:" 

Dr. MacDonald is not worried by the protest that fairy tales sometimes 
have "bad morals." He finds much popular confusion between the words 
"meaning" and "moral" in such complaints. What we do actually and 
rightly dislike, he thinks, is a moral label. 

This is why the short sighted, the unco guid, or those whose "heads 
are filled with science" (to paraphrase a great writer), stupidly object to the 
fairy tale; they always want to append a copy book moral. The bad 
figures in fairy tales often play tricks successfully upon the good ones, but 
the child is not thereby deceived. His unerring instinct, unwarped by any 
sophistry of man's education, pierces all the shams, and he loves the good 
and turns away, just as surely, from the bad. The spiritual sense of what 
is deeply true is integral in the child's imagination, and must be held sacred. 
— N. Y. Evening Sun. 

Ill 



"TFrom tl)e !^ooK Sbelf 



"In Oldest England," by G. P. Krapp, Price, 75 cents. Longmans, 
Green & Co., New York. 

Dr. Krapp, a professor of literature in Columbia University, has given 
us an interesting and valuable book, for both youth and adult. He relates 
in an interesting way the story of England's history, from the beginning 
up to the Norman conquest, using facts, ancient manuscripts, pictures 
and early literature to tell the story. He makes an appeal to the imagina- 
tion, to re-create those far-off days, that we may fully realize how our 
ancestors lived a thousand years ago. 

The measure of a people's civilization, he says, is not in the amount 
of machinery they possess, but in the thoughts and affections w^hich go to 
make up character. We cannot give a better idea of the book than the 
story of England's first poet, which we give on another page of the Magazine. 

"Tales of the Enchanted Isles of the Atlantic." By Thomas Went- 
worth Higginson. Price, $1.50, The Macmillan Company, New York. 

"Bancroft, the historian, made it a matter of pride that the beginning 
of American annals was bare and literal," says the author, and he goes on 
to prove, through two hundred and fifty-nine interesting pages, that 
Bancroft was mistaken. To Europeans, undiscovered America lay beyond 
the great unknown sea of awe, danger and vanishing isles. The islands 
within sight of European shores, Irish, Breton, Welsh and Spanish, had the 
glamour of enchantment cast about them. They were the gateways to a 
sea of mystery. The Canary Isles were discovered before the Christian 
era and then lost sight of for thirteen centuries. A continent called 
Atlantis, thought to have been submerged in the Atlantic, had long haunted 
the imagination of people in Europe and Africa. Solon, the law-giver and 
poet, wrote a letter in which he said that when a student in Egypt, he was 
told that the island of Atlantis, was sunk thousands of years ago. This 
letter was read and studied by both Socrates and Plato. From these 
traditions, taught by Greek and Egyptian, and believed by the inhabitants 
of Western Europe, who ever looked out upon the Atlantic, grew the inter- 
esting tales which the author gives, such as "Island of Youth," "Swan 
Children of Lir," "Castle of Active Door," and "Island of Seven Cities." 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



King Arthur visited one of the Islands, and wrestled with Half-Man, which 
meant Habit, and when he fought his last battle in the West, and sailed 
away, it was to Avalon, one of the enchanted isles. 

These traditions were great psychic forces, that lured men on until 
they discovered a new world, more marvelous than Atlantis. A fine book 
for the story tellers and one bearing directly on American history. 

"Indian Sketches, Pere Marquette and the Last of the Pottawatomie 
Chiefs. ' ' By Cornelia Steketee Hulst. Price, 60 cents. Longmans, 
Green & Co., New York. 

Mrs. Hulst combines historical data and literary art in such proportion 
as to make a most readable book, an Indian epic, beginning where the Song 
of Hiawatha left off, and bringing the Indian down to modern times. The 
story of the white man's injustice and greed toward the Indian should be 
told our children. Our histories have omitted the accounts of the exile and 
banishment of tribes to the Far West. " To frankly confess a fault indicates 
a higher plane of honor and sincerity," says the author. We have wronged 
our brothers, the Redmen, the first Americans. Let us as far as we can 
right the wrong. The book is a voice from the present speaking to the future. 
No one can read the book without feeling its appeal to fair play and eternal 
justice and right. 

The Indian's religion of the Great Spirit, his folk-games and folk- 
stories, — a true folk-culture that came out of the countless ages of American 
geography and history may yet be made over into the culture of modern 
America for our good. The author has set us thinking. 



"Willie Wyld," three volumes. Natural History Stories: "Voyage to 
the Island of Zanzibar," "Hunting Big Game in Africa," 
"Lost in the Jungles of Africa." By William James Morrison, 
with an introduction by Dr. P. P. Claxton, United States Commis- 
sioner of Education. Price, 60 cents a vol. Publishing House M. E. 
Church South, Nashville, Tenn. 

The wide circulation these books have had prove the author's position 
that a story need not be a fairy story to hold a child's attention, but that 
Natural History has a marvelous story of its own to tell. While the books 
are instructive, yet the narrative holds the attention to the end. The plot 

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THE STORYTELLERS* MAGAZINE 



is original and so is the method. Dr. Claxton says in his Introduction, "All 
people like stories of adventure, boys and girls most of all. Our ancestors 
told them about their camp fires, at night, in the long winter and on the 
meadows and in the openings of the great forests in the long twilights of 
the summer. 

"Dr. Morrison has become known among modern story tellers for his 
realistic stories of adventure in which are interwoven valuable information 
of strange lands, peoples and animals. The stories in 'Willie Wyld' were 
first told by Dr. Morrison to the children of Nashville, in the Children's 
Reading Room of the Public Library of that city, and have been written down 
as told, hence their freshness, simplicity and realism. I have just read them 
at a sitting without skipping a sentence, and I am sure many another child 
will want to do the same." A helpful set of books for boys and girls. 



The Aldine Series of Readers: The Primer, 32 cents; 1st Reader, 
36 cents; 2d Reader, 42 cents; 3d Reader, 48 cents; 4th Reader, 
65 cents; 5th Reader, 75 cents; 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th Grade Readers, 
48 cents each. 

Learning to Read. A Teachers' Manual, 60 cents. By Frank E. Spauld- 

ing, Superintendent of Schools, Newton, Mass., and Catherine T. 

Bryce, Supervisor of Primary Schools, Newton, Mass. Newson & 

Company, New York. 

These Readers are based on the Aldine Method of Teaching Reading, 
as explained in "Learning to Read," — A Manual for Teachers. Attractive 
as they undoubtedly are, with Miss Webb's delightful illustrations and the 
excellent general arrangement of the material, they are far more important 
in the means employed to attract and hold the child's attention; in the 
way in which they arouse the child's interest and stimulate and direct the 
child's thought. The Aldine Method in reading is in reality the Story 
Telling method of teaching the child to read. 

Thus, learning to read by the Aldine Method, or the story-telling 
method, appeals to the child as real pleasure; he enters upon the under- 
taking with the enthusiasm of his play and his recreation. It is an en- 
thusiasm which does not easily tire. 

Any teacher who is interested in the art of story telling as a means of 
instruction for young children will surely be interested in the Aldine Readers. 

114 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Storj Ocllers' Ceagues 

The Storytellers' Magazine publishes for the convenience of those 
interested in the story telHng movement a finding Ust of Story Tellers' 
Leagues throughout the United States. Correspondence is invited in order 
to supply omissions caused by lack of information so that the Magazine 
may be made as complete as possible. 

Leagues marked with a * publish Year Books. 

I3^e Mahonal Stor^ Oeller^'TCeague 

Home Office : 27 West Twenty-third Street, New York 



Offi 



icers 



Richard T. Wyche, President 

27 West 23d St., N. Y. 

James H. Van Sickle, Vice President 

Superintendent of Schools, Springfield, Mass. 



R. M. Hodge, Secretary 

552 West 113th St., N. Y. 



W. H. Keister, Treasurer 

Superintendent of Schools, Harrisonburg, Va. 



ALABAMA 



BIRMINGHAM 

Story Tellers' League 



President 



Cor. Secretary 



P. O. Address — Care J. H. Phillips, Supt. 
Birmingham Public Schools 

MONTEVALLO 

*Alabama Girls' Technical Institute 
Story Tellers' League 
Miss Myrtle Brooke, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Alabama Girls' Technical In- 
stitute, Montevallo, Ala. 

TUSCUMBIA 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Rayner Tillman, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Care Public Schools, Tus- 
cumbia, Ala. 



ARKANSAS 

LITTLE ROCK 

*Story Tellers' League 
Miss Grace Boyce, President 
Miss Dora Hooper, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — Care Superintendent City 
Schools, Little Rock, Ark. 

COLORADO 

DENVER 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Edwina Fallis, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P.O. Address— 637 Franklin St.. Denver, Col. 

CONNECTICUT 

HARTFORD 

Story Tellers' League 

Prof. E. P. St. John, President 
Miss Ethel H. Wooster, Secretary 
P. O. Address — Hartford School Religious 
Pedagogy, Hartford, Conn. 



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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



GEORGIA 

ATHENS 

"Round Table" 

Prof. D. L. Earnest, President 

Miss Janie Tharpe, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal, Athens, Ga. 

ATLANTA 

Story Tellers' League 

Mr. George B. Hinman, Ho7i. President 
Mrs. Charles Goodman, President 
Mrs. Meta Barker, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — 24 Park Lane, Ansley Park, 
Atlanta, Ga. 

"Just-So" Story Tellers' Club 
Mr. Walter McElrath, President 
Miss Meta Barker, Secretary and Treasurer 
P. O. Address— 68 East Avenue, Atlanta, Ga. 

DALTON 

Story Tellers' League 
Mr. T. S. Lucas, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Supt. City Schools, Dalton, 
Ga. 

ILLINOIS 

BLOOMINGTON 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Frances E. Foote, Hon. President 

Mrs. C. B. Hanson, President 

Mrs. Perry B. Johnson, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 402 West Chestnut St., 
Bloomington, 111. 
CARBONDALE 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Fadra R. Holmes, President 

■ , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal School, Car- 
bondale. 111. 
CHICAGO 
*Story Tellers' League. (Chicago Branch 

Natl. S. T. L.) 

Miss Alice O'Grady, President 

Miss Grace Hemingway, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 444 N. Oak Park Ave.. Oak 
Park, 111. 
DECATIR 
Story Club 

Miss Flora B. Smith, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 657 W. Main St., Decatur. 111. 



NORMAL 

Story Tellers' League, Normal ITniversity 
Frances E. Foote, President 
Miss Ada Kreider, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — Normal University, Normal, 
111. 

SPRINGFIELD 

Sangamon County Story Tellers' League 
Miss Emma Grant, President 

, Car. Secretary 

P. O. Address, Care of Superintendent 
Schools, Springfield, 111. 



IOWA 

DES MOINES 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Jeanette Ezekiels, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Kindergarten Dept., Drake 
University, Des Moines, la. 

KANSAS 

KANSAS CITY 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Mary L. Dougherty, President 

■ — , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — 540 Oakland Ave.. Kansas 
City, Kan. 
TOPEKA 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Linna E. Bresette, President 

. Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 506 Polk St., Topeka, Kan. 

KENTUCKY 

COVINGTON 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Lily Southgate, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — High School, Covington, Ky. 
FORT THOMAS 
Story Tellers' League 

. President 

Miss Bessie J. White, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Southgate Ave.. Fort Thom- 
as. Ky. 



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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



LOUISVILLE 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Nannie Lee Frayser, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — University School, Louis- 
ville, Ky. 

NEWPORT 

Campbell County Story Tellers' League 

, President 

Miss Florence Savage, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — 36 Home Ave., Newport, Ky. 

LOUISIANA 

NEW ORLEANS 

*Story Tellers' League 

Miss Eleanor Payne, President 

Miss Ida Bamett, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 1631 Octavia St., New Or- 
leans, La. 
SHREVEPORT 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Pearl Fortson, President 

; , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — High School, Shreveport, La. 

MASSACHUSETTS 

WORCESTER 

Story Tellers' Club 

Miss Edna CoUamore, President 
Miss Mary Woodward, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — 40 Merrick St., Worcester, 
Mass. 

ADRIAN MICHIGAN 

"* Story Tellers' League 
Miss Nellie Stow, President 
Miss Fanny Rich, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — Care Public Library, Adrian, 
Mich. 

CALUMET 

Story Tellers' League 

Mrs. Robert Wetzel, President 
Miss Ella Josey, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— Care C. & H. Library, Cal- 
umet, Mich. 

DETROIT 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Mary Conover, President 
Miss Alice M. Alexander, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — Children's Room, Public Li- 
brary, Detroit, Mich. 



MISSOURI 

ST. JOSEPH 

*St. Joseph Story Tellers' League 
Miss Martina Martin, President 
Miss Georgiana Behne, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 209 North 18th Street, St. 
Joseph, Mo. 

MISSISSIPPI 

BLUE MOUNTAIN 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Jennie Hardy, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Blue Mountain College, 
Blue Mountain, Miss. 
COLUMBUS 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Rosa B. Knox, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Normal Institute, Columbus, 
Miss. 

MONTANA 

BOZEMAN 

Story Tellers' League 
Mrs. R. J. Cunninghan, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Bozeman, Mont. 

DILLON 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Florence Mayer, President 
Miss Susie Karas, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — State Normal, Dillon, Mont. 

HELENA 

Story Tellers' Le.\gue 
Mr. J. W. Curtis, President 
Miss Lucile Dyas, Cor. Secretary. 
P. O. Address — Care City Schools, Helena, 
Mont. 

OMAHA NEBRASKA 

*Story Tellers' League 
Mrs. C. W. Axtell, President 
Miss Emma Rosicky, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— loio William St., Omaha, 
Neb. 

*Wyche Story Tellers' League 
Miss Ida M. Crowell, President 
Miss Mary Krebs, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 1332 S. 25th Ave., Omaha, 
Neb. 



117 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



LINCOLN 

Story Tellers' League, Nebraska State 
Teachers' Association 
Miss Margaret Cleland, President 
P. O. Address— 2491 Q Street, Lincoln, Neb. 

NEW YORK 
NEW YORK CITY 

Knickerbocker Story Tellers' League 
Mrs. E. D. Burt, President 
Mrs. Anna P. Ball, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 500 West 121st Street, New 
York. 

Informal Fireside Story Telling Circle 
Miss L. A. Palmer, President 
Miss Charlotte Cornish Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 235 East 18th St., New York 

Story Tellers' League, Y.W.C.A. Training 
Schnol 
, President 



, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— 113 East 34th Street, New 
York. 
SYRACUSE 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Maude C. Stewart, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Care Willard School, Syra- 
cuse, N. Y. 

NORTH CAROLINA 

WILSON 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Daphne Carraway, President 
Miss Florence Mayerberg, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 208 North Pine Street, 
Wilson, N. C. 

OHIO 
CINCINNATI 

*Story Tellers' League 

Miss Pearl Carpenter, President 

Miss L. O'Neill, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — 2371 Fairview Ave., Cin- 
cinnati, O. 
OXFORD 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss Annie Logan, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Miami University, Oxford, O. 



PIQUA 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Jessie H. Masden, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Schmidlapp Free Public Li- 
brary, Piqua, O. 

OKLAHOMA 

PONCA CITY 

Story Tellers' League 
Miss Lenna Mead, President 
Miss Roberta McCullough, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— Ponca City, Okla. 

PENNSYLVANIA 

PHILADELPHIA 

Story Tellers' League 
Prof. F. A. Child. President 
Miss Helen D. Mills, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— Box 38, College Hall, Uni- 
versity of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, 
Pa. 
NORTH EAST 

North East Story Tellers' club 
Miss Laura Selkregg, President 
Miss Almeda Wells, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address— 140 W. Main St., North 
East, Pa. 

SOUTH CAROLINA 

TIMMONSVILLE 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Annie W. Shuler, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Box 247. Timmonsville, S. C. 

TENNESSEE 

HARRIMAN 

Story Tellers' League 

Miss Inez A. Ayers, President 

■ , Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — Public Library, Harriman, 
Tenn. 

NASHVILLE 

*Story Tellers' League 

Miss Elizabeth Oehmig, President 
Miss Cornelia Barksdale, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — 1207 Ordway Place, Nash- 
ville, Tenn. 



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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



TEXAS 

SAN ANTONIO 

Mark Twain Story Tellers' League 

• , President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P.O. Address — High School, SanAntonio,Tex. 
WACO 

Story Tellers' League of Baylor Univer- 
sity Summer School 

, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address— Care Prof. W. W. Pelham, 
Waco, Tex. 

VIRGINIA 
HARRISONBURG 

Story Tellers' League 

Prof. C. J. Heatwole, President 

■ ■ — ■, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal School, Har- 
risonburg, Va. 
RICHMOND 
Story Tellers' League 

Miss" Lucy Coleman, President 

, Secretary 

P. O. Address— 13 North 5th Street, Rich- 
mond, Va. 



WEST VIRGINIA 

GLENVILLE 

Story Tellers' League 
Mr. Blaine Engle, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — State Normal School, Glen- 
viile, W. Va. 

HINTON 

Stort Tellers' League 
Mr. R. L. Cole, President 

, Cor. Secretary 

P. O. Address — High School, Hinton, W. Va. 

MORGANTOWN 

Beowulf Story Tellers' Club, 
Mr. J. A. McRae, President 
Miss Marian Tapp, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — West Virginia University, 
Morgantown, W. Va. 

WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS 

Story Tellers' League 
Mr. H. C. Bailey, President 
Miss Bettie Dunbar, Cor. Secretary 
P. O. Address — White Sulphur Springs, 
W. Va. 




The School of 
Mothercraft 

OFFERS BRIEF COURSES IN 

Story Telling, Nursery Play and Hand- 
work; Methods of Teaching Nature 
Study; Practical Child Study. 

Classes for Mothers, Mothers' Assist- 
ants, Sunday School Workers, Social 
Workers. Reference Library. 

For further particulars, write the Director, 

Summer Address: MARY L. READ 

59 West 96th St., New York City 
119 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



business Manager's Sbr^ 

N J^ELL, we came, we are seen, we are conquered — by the 
many kind things our readers are saying about us. 

Of course, we understand our friends and well wishers 
are apt to emphasize our good points and minimize our failings. 
The most conscientious critics are perhaps silent over our 
shortcomings out of sympathy and good nature. 

We hope not, however. Constructive ideas from friendly 
critics is the most encouraging form of appreciation. The 
best service any one can render the Magazine is to show how 
it can be made better. 

The Storytellers' letter bag since the publication of the 
first number of the Magazine has been running over with 
comment of the most encouraging nature, and, as we venture 
to hope the public at large will share in some degree our pleasure 
over the cordial recognition of our efforts which it indicates, 
we give below a few of the many comments received : 



Amherst, N. H. Miss Rebecca Spaulding writes: 

"Perhaps you will be interested in knowing that at the 
news-stand where I stopped to buy the magazine the first day it was 
out the newsboy himself was devouring it. 
"Is it a good Magazine?" I asked. 

"It's better'n the novels," he answered with a bright smile, 
and was soon lost in its pages again. 

"Isn't that a good advertisement in itself." 



Saint Louis, Mo. 
Society writes: 



Percival Chubb, President of the Ethical 



"Congratulations on your first number. It promises very well 
and I hope you will be receiving assistance all over the country 
which will enable you to make a notable thing of your new venture." 



120 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Illinois Normal University. Miss Frances E. Foote writes: 

"Hurrah for the Storytellers' Magazine! I'm delighted with 
this initial number." 



YoNKERS, N. Y. Charles Welsh, author and editor, writes: 

"You have struck it right the first time, and I hope you have 
'struck it rich.' The Magazine is a little gem from the point of 
view of get-up, and a glance at the contents suffices to show me 
that you have struck a rich vein of good things. No home where 
there are children should be without it." 

Albany, N. Y. Sherman WilHams, Chief of the School Libraries' 
Division, New York State Education Department, writes: 

" I wish it might go into the hands of every first and second grade 
primary teacher in the land." 

Philadelphia, Pa. Frederic A. Child, Professor of English 
Language and Literature, University of Pennsylvania, 
writes : 

"The Magazine is fine, both in appearance and content." 

Chicago, III. Miss Georgene Faulkner — "The Story Lady" — 
writes : 

"The Magazine is excellent and contains very valuable material. 
The Bibliography alone is worth a year's subscription." 



Utica, N. Y. Miss Georgina Speare writes: 

". . . And last but not at all the least I shall aid you to get 
subscribers, because I want to help the financial side of your under- 
taking. You are beginning a splendid work and I wish you the 
greatest success." 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



The last writer, Miss Speare, in her desire "to help the 
financial side," hits the nail squarely on the head. 

That is the business manager's side. 

No one knows so well as he what the making of a magazine 
costs. 

Have you ever reckoned up the thousands and thousands 
of dollars it takes to make and publish ten or twelve numbers 
of a magazine.'* 

Have you ever thought how little it costs the subscriber — 
just eight and one-third cents per month — including the postage? 

If you have thought of these things you already under- 
stand how necessary the subscriber is to the life of the Magazine. 

"He, who is not for us, is against us" is just as true of a 
Magazine subscription as any other form of endeavor. 

We have received much substantial encouragement already 
from subscribers, and new ones are coming in every day. 

We have also many earnest representatives at work making 
friends and subscribers for the Magazine, but we need many 
more — in fact, we need you. 

If you are not already a subscriber will you not send in your 
subscription now — and then lend us your assistance to get 
others. 

REMEMBER, we make it worth your uihile to work for 
The Storytellers' Magazine. 

Address BUSINESS MANAGER, 

The Storytellers' Magazine, 
27 West 23d St., New York. 



122 



THE STORYTELLERS 



MAGAZINE 



Snow-wl)lte anb ^05e-re6 

{From ^^ Grimm's Fairy Tales") 

^^y4 POOR widow once lived in a little cottage with a garden in 
_/ \ front of it, in which grew two rose trees, one bearing white 
^ roses and the other red. She had two children who were 
just like the two rose trees; one was called Snow-white and the other 
Rose-red, and they were the sweetest and best children in the world, 
always diligent and always cheerful; but Snow-white was quieter and 
more gentle than Rose-red. Rose-red loved to run about the fields 
and meadows, and to pick flowers and to catch butterflies; but Snow- 
white sat at home with her mother and helped her in the household, 
or read aloud to her when there was no work to do. The two children 
loved each other so dearly that they always walked about hand-in- 
hand whenever they went out together, and when Snow-white said: 
"We will never desert each other," Rose-red answered: "No, not 
as long as we live;" and the mother added: "Whatever one gets she 
shall share with the other." They often roamed about in the woods 
gathering berries and no beast offered to harm them; on the contrary 
they came up to them in the most confiding manner; the little hare 
would eat a cabbage leaf from their hands, the deer grazed beside 
them, the stag would bound past them merrily, and the birds remained 
on the branches and sang to them with all their might. No evil ever 
befell them; if they tarried late in the wood and night overtook them, 
they lay down together on the moss and slept till morning, and their 
mother knew that they were quite safe, and never felt anxious about 
them. Once when they had slept the night in the wood and they 
had been wakened by the morning sun, they perceived a beautiful 
child in a shining white robe sitting close to their resting-place. The 
figure got up, looked at them kindly, but said nothing and vanished 
into the wood. And when they looked around about them they be- 
came aware that they had slept quite close to a precipice, over which 
they would certainly have fallen had they gone on a few steps further 
in the darkness. And when they told their mother of their adventure, 

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THE STORYTELLERS', MAGAZINE 



she said what they had seen must have been the^ngel that guards 
good children. 

Snow-white and Rose-red kept their mother's cottage so beau- 
tifully clean and neat that it was a pleasure to go into it. In summer 
Rose-red looked after the house, and every morning before her mother 
awoke she placed a bunch of flowers before the bed, from each tree 
a rose. In winter Snow-white lit the fire and put on the kettle, which 
was made of brass, but so beautifully polished that it shone like gold. 
In the evening when the snowflakes fell their mother said: "Snow- 
white, go and close the shutters;" and they drew round the fire, while 
the mother put on her spectacles and read from a big book, and the 
two girls listened and sat and span. Beside them on the ground lay 
a little lainb, and behind them perched a little white dove with its 
head tucked under its wings. 

One evening as they sat thus cosily together some one knocked 
at the door as though he desired admittance. The mother said: 
"Rose-red, open the door quickly; it must be some traveller seeking 
shelter." Rose-red hastened to unbar the door, and thought she saw 
a poor man standing in the darkness outside ; but it was no such thing, 
only a bear, who poked his thick black head through the door. Rose- 
red screamed aloud and sprang back in terror, the lamb began to 
bleat, the dove flapped his wings, and Snow-white ran and hid behind 
her mother's bed. But the bear began to speak, and said: "Don't 
be afraid: I won't hurt you. I am half frozen, and only wish to warm 
myself a little." "My poor bear," said the mother, "lie down by the 
fire, only take care you don't burn your fur." Then she called out: 
"Snow-white and Rose-red, come out; the bear will do 3'ou no harm: 
he is a good honest creature." So they both came out of their hiding- 
places, and gradually the lamb and the dove drew near too, and they 
all forgot their fear. The bear asked the children to beat the snow a 
little out of his fur, and they fetched a brusli and scrubbed him till 
he was dry. Then the beast stretched himself in front of the fire, 
and growled quite happily and comfortably. The children grew quite 
at ease with him, and led their helpless guest a fearful life. They 
tugged his fur with their hands, put their small feet on his back, and 
rolled him about here and there, or took a hazel wand and beat him 
with it; and if he growled they only laughed. The bear submitted 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



to everything with the best possible good-nature, and only when they 
went too far he cried: "Oh! children, spare my life! 

Snow-white and Rose-red, 
Don't beat your lover dead." 

When it was time to retire for the night, and the others went to bed, 
the mother said to the bear: "You can lie there on the hearth, in 
Heaven's name; it will be shelter for you from the cold and wet." 
As soon as day dawned the children let him out, and he trotted over 
the snow into the wood. From this time on the bear came every 
evening at the same hour, and lay down by the hearth and let the 
children play what pranks they liked with him; and they got so ac- 
customed to him that the door was never shut till their black friend 
had made his appearance. 

When spring came, and all outside was green, the bear said one 
morning to Snow-white: "Now I must go away, and not return 
again the whole summer." "Where are you going to, dear bear.''" 
asked Snow-white. "I must go to the wood and protect my treasure 
from the wicked dwarfs. In winter, when the earth is frozen hard, 
they are obliged to remain underground, for they can't work their 
way up through; but now, when the sun has thawed and w^armed the 
ground, they break through and come up above to spy the land and 
steal what they can: what once falls into their hands and into their 
caves is not easily brought back to light." Snow-white was quite 
sad over her friend's departure, and when she unbarred the door for 
him, the bear, stepping out, caught a piece of his fur in the door- 
knocker, and Snow-white thought she caught sight of glittering gold 
beneath it, but she couldn't be sure of it; and the bear ran hastily 
away, and soon disappeared behind the trees. 

A short time after this the mother sent the children into the woods 
to collect fagots. They came in their wanderings upon a big tree 
which lay felled on the ground, and on the trunk among the long grass 
they noticed something jumping up and down, but what it was they 
couldn't distinguish. When they approached nearer they perceived 
a dwarf with a wizened face and a beard a yard long. The end of 
the beard was jammed into a cleft of the tree, and the little man 
sprang about like a dog on a chain and didn't seem to know what he 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



was to do. He glared at the girls with his fiery red eyes, and screamed 
out: "What are you standing there for? Can't you come and help 
me?" "What are you doing, little man?" asked Rose-red. "You 
stupid, inquisitive goose!" replied the dwarf; "I wanted to split the tree 
in order to get little chips of wood for our kitchen fire; those thick 
logs that serve to make fires for coarse, greedy people like yourselves 
quite burn up all the little food we need. I had successfully driven 
in the wedge, and all was going well, but the cursed wood was so slip- 
pery that it suddenly sprang out, and the tree closed up so rapidly 
that I had no time to take my beautiful white beard out, so here I 
am stuck fast, and I can't get away; and you silly, smooth-faced, milk- 
and-water girls just stand and laugh! Ugh! what wretches you are!" 

The children did all in their power, but they couldn't get the 
beard out; it was wedged in far too firmly. "I will run and fetch 
somebody," said Rose-red. "Crazy blockheads!" snapped the dwarf; 
"what's the good of calling any one else? you're already two too 
many for me. Does nothing better occur to you than that?" "Don't 
be so impatient," said Snow-white, "I'll see you get help;" and tak- 
ing her scissors out of her pocket she cut the end off the beard. As 
soon as the dwarf felt himself free he seized a bag full of gold which 
was hidden among the roots of the tree, lifted it up, and muttered 
aloud: "Curse these rude wretches, cutting off a piece of my splendid 
beard!" With these words he swung the bag over his back, and dis- 
appeared without as much as looking at the children again. 

Shortly after this Snow-white and Rose-red went out to get a 
dish of fish. As they approached the stream they saw something 
which looked like an enormous grasshopper, springing towards the 
water as if it were going to jump in. They ran forward and recog- 
nized their old friend the dwarf. "Where are you going to?" asked 
Rose-red; "you're surely not going to jump into the water?" "I'm 
not such a fool," screamed the dwarf. "Don't you see that cursed 
fish is trying to drag me in?" The little man had been sitting on 
the bank fishing, when unfortunately the wind had entangled his 
beard in the line; and when immediately afterwards a big fish bit, 
the feeble little creature had no strength to pull it out; the fish had 
the upper fin, and dragged the dwarf towards him. He clung on with 
all his might to every rush and blade of grass, but it didn't help him 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



much; he had to follow every movement of the fish, and was in great 
danger of being drawn into the water. The girls came up just at the 
right moment, held him firm, and did all they could to disentangle his 
beard from the line; but in vain, beard and line were in a hopeless 
muddle. Nothing remained but to produce the scissors and cut the 
beard, by which a small part of it was sacrificed. 

Wlien the dwarf perceived what they were about he yelled to 
them: "Do you call that manners, you toadstools? to disfigure a 
fellow's face.'^ it wasn't enough that you shortened my beard before, 
but you must now cut off the best bit of it. I can't appear like this 
before my own people. I wish you'd been at Jericho first." Then 
he fetched a sack of pearls that lay among the rushes, and without 
saying another word he dragged it away and disappeared behind a 
stone. 

It happened that soon after this the mother sent the two girls 
to the town to buy needles, thread, laces and ribbons. Their road 
led over a heath where huge boulders of rock lay scattered here and 
there. While trudging along they saw a big bird hovering in the air 
circling slowly above them, but always descending lower, till as last 
it settled on a rock not far from them. Immediately afterwards they 
heard a sharp, piercing cry. They ran forward and saw with horror 
that the eagle had pounced on their old friend the dwarf, and was 
about to carry him off. The tender hearted children seized hold of 
the little man, and struggled so long with the bird that at last he 
let go his prey. When the dwarf had recovered from the first shock, 
he screa lied in a screeching voice: "Couldn't you have treated me 
more carefully.f^ you have torn my thin little coat all to shreds, use- 
less, awkward hussies that you are!" Then he took a bag of precious 
stones and vanished under the rocks into his cave. The girls were 
accustomed to his ingratitude, and went on their way and did their 
business in town. On their way home as they were again passing 
the heath they surprised the dwarf pouring out his precious stones 
on an open space, for he had thought that no one would pass by at 
so late an hour. The evening sun shone on the glittering stones, 
and they glanced and gleamed so beautifully that the children stood 
still and gazed at them. "What are you standing there gaping for.^*" 
screamed the dwarf, and his ashen-gray face became scarlet with 

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THE STORYTELL. ERS' MAGAZINE 



IT^} 



rage. He was about to go off with these angry words when a sudden 
growl was heard, and a black bear trotted out of the woods. The 
dwarf jumped up in great fright, but he hadn't time to reach his 
place of retreat, for the bear was already close to him: "Dear Mr. 
Bear, spare me! I'll give you all my treasure. Look at those beau- 
tiful precious stones lying there. Spare my life! What pleasure 
would you get from a poor feeble little fellow like me? You won't 
feel me between your teeth. There, lay hold of those two wicked 
girls; they will be a tender morsel for you, as fat as young quails; 
eat them up, for heaven's sake." But the bear, paying no attention 
to his words, gave the evil little creature one blow with his paw, and 
he never moved again. 

The girls had run away, but the bear called after them: "Snow- 
white and Rose-red, don't be afraid; wait, and I will come with you." 
Then they recognized his voice and stood still, and when the bear 
was quite close to them his skin suddenly fell off, and a beautiful 
man stood beside them, all dressed in gold. "I am a king's son," 
he said, "and have been doomed by that unholj^ little dwarf, who 
had stolen my treasure, to roam about the woods as a wild bear till 
his death should set me free. Now he has got his well-merited pun- 
ishment." 

Snow-white married him, and Rose-red his brother, and they 
divided the great treasure the dwarf had collected in his cave between 
them. The old mother lived peacefully for many years with her 
children; and she carried the two rose trees with her, and they stood 
in front of her window, and every year they bore the finest red and 
white roses. 



Memory, like the sun, paints to me bright pictures of the golden 
summer time of lotus; I can see them, but how shall I fix them for you? 
By no process can that be accomplished. It is like a story that cannot be 
told because he who knows it is tongue-tied and dumb. — Jeffries. 



Let us never forget that an act of goodness is of itself an act of happi- 
ness. No reward coming after the event can compare with the sweet 
reward that went with it. — Maeterlinck. 

128 



September 



O sweet September! thy first breezes bring 

The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter, 

The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, 
And promise of exceeding joy hereafter. 

George Arnold. 



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THE 

ENCHANTED 

SWORD * 

Which will sever 
the cruel pris- 
oning bands 




* Perseus, 

Fvme-Jone.1. 
[Courtesy of 
Braun et Cie] 



Uferoes 



Small Boy is here beside me — 
Quiet, just for a space — 

No laughter-imps deride me; 
A dream-look steals to his face. 



And I know that a pageant of marvels 

Holds that wide-eyes stare: 
Wonderful white-winged carvels. 

Skimming both water and air; 



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Weaving of spells by witch-fires. 
Waving of wands, and chants; 

The Brave Prince lost in the pitch-mires. 
The mountain of glass which slants 



Dear boy, I shall make a prayer 
To be said by me for you; 

But the boon that I ask we'll share, 
For my heart will rejoice anew 



Terribly upward ever; 

The Maiden, wringing her hands; 
The Enchanted Sword which will sever 

The cruel, prisoning bands. 



Heroes throng to the vision: 

Roland and Oliver, 
Arthur of sacred mission 

With the brand Excalibur. 



The Cid is there, bestriding 
Babieca, poorly named. 

And there in humble hiding. 
Good Alfred, hugely shamed. 



By rating of the goodwife — 
He burned the cates, forsooth! 

And, hero of the wood-life, 
Soft steps an Indian youth: 




The forge of Vulcan's flaring. 
Leap Brunhilde's magic flames, 

While Jack, of dauntless daring. 
The towering giant shames. 



The Golden Fleece is taken 
Down from the dangerous tree; 

The Walls of Troy are shaken — 
But his gaze comes back to me. 



If the vision shall never leave you 

Of actions brave and strong, 
Of lives that we love and cleave to. 

Of strivings to right the wrong: 
If, heroes of boyhood discarding 

With heroes indeed you replace. 
Knowing and loving and guarding 

The heritage of the race. 

— Gertrude C. Hopkins 



131 




COME UNTO ME * * YE WEARY AND HEAVY LADEN"* 



'Christ Among the Lowly L'Hermitte 

Metropolitan Museum, N. Y. 

[Courtesy of Braun et Cie.] 




^ ifKagajine ^ 



VOLUME 1 SEPTEMBER, 191;} NUMBER ;i 

Ufelping tl)e blaster 

^Y HEveleeit Ufarrijsort 

^%^HERE were all the people going? Such crowds passed quickly 
^ft/ through the streets, talking earnestly about something. 

"Haste thee, Sarah, or we may be too late to see the 
wonderful things!" 

"Tell us again, Samuel, what saw ye the Great One do?" 

"When we find him, think you that he will help our Rachel?" 

So they talked, as men, women, and children passed down the 
street. 

The whole town seemed to be interested in this strange journey. 
A little lad broke through the crowd, and pushed open the door of a 
small house. 

"Mother, may I go? Wilt thou give me some lunch, all the town 
goes to-day out to the edge of the desert, to see such wonderful things !" 

The mother looked lovingly into her boy's eager face. 

"Yes, my son; see, here is thy lunch, fresh barley bread, and fish 
just caught from the lake. Take thy basket, and God go with thee." 

A long, hot, dusty walk, but what of that, the wonderful things 
were to come. 

"On top of that grassy slope, see you that knot of men? There 
he is." • 

The crowd pressed eagerly on, and such a strange crowd. The 

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blind stretched out their hands to be led. The deaf kept eyes fixed 
on the hill. Those who carried dear ones in litters, took up anew their 
heavy burden. The lame pressed painfully forward. The lepers 
followed afar off. 

Hush ! through the clear air comes the music of His voice. 

" Come unto Me, come unto Me * * * ye weary and heavy laden," 
and the burdened crowd passed on up the hill. 

Right in the front ran our little lad, full of a boy's delight in the 
wonders to be seen and heard. At the side of the "Great One" he 
stood; joined with delight in the shouts of joy as the blind first opened 
their eyes to the glorious light ; the deaf answered the questions of their 
friends; the lame rose to their feet, leaping and walking, the sick 
took up their beds and walked, and the lepers bowed to the gr'ound 
at the feet of the " Great One," and rose clean and whole. 

Oh ! the gladness of rejoicing, the tears of happiness on the faces 
of friends and loved ones. 

And then the stories the " Great One" told. Of the birds and the 
flowers, the animals and the jewels. Earnestly the little lad listened 
and wondered. 

Hour after hour passed. Finally the "Great One" turned to his 
special friends. 

"I have compassion on the multitude * * * give them to eat!" 

Give them to eat? 

"Two hundred pennyworth of bread is not enough that each 
may have a mouthful!" 

At these words the lad, eager to help, to give all he had, stretched 
out his little lunch basket that mother gave him. 

One of the special friends named Andrew stopped and opened 
the basket. 

"Master," he called, "there is a little lad here who hath five 
barley loaves and two small fishes." 

"But," he added, with a shrug of his shoulders, "what are they 
amongst so many.?" 

The "Great One" smiled down on the little lad, and He turned 
with outstretched hand. 

"Bring them hither to Me.", 

Was it possible his poor little offering would be accepted .^^ 

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With a radiant face the lad laid down his basket at the feet of the 
Master. 

"Bid the men sit down," the quiet voice commanded. 

Like a large flock of birds the great company settled down upon 
the grassy hillside. Fifty, and fifty, and fifty; in row after row. Men, 
women, and little children, lots of little children. 

Closely our little lad watched to see what the "Great One" 
would do. What could He do, even He, with five little rolls and two 
tiny fish; hardly enough for one hungry boy. 

The hands of the "Great One" were outstretched, raised to 
heaven. Every head was bowed, and a deep silence passed through 
that great company; for a blessing was asked from God above over 
the little lad's bread and fish. 

And then what a marvelous wonder took place! Basket after 
basket was filled and handed to the special friends! Back and forth 
they went, up and down the rows of people, urging every one to take 
all they required. 

When a basket was empty back went the carrier to the "Great 
One" and again it was filled! 

Could it be possible. ^^ Five small loaves and two wee fish.^^ 

With joy the little lad helped carry back and forth the baskets. 
Over and over he kept repeating, *'My lunch enough for five thou- 
sand people!" His little heart beat so fast with joy and pride that 
he could hardly breathe. For was he not permitted to help the 
"Great One!" 

Had not his missionary offering — all he had to give — been ac- 
cepted and magnified a thousand fold ! 

"Gather up all the fragments, let nothing be lost." 

And again the baskets, this time full of broken pieces, were laid 
at the feet of the "Great One." 

The people bowed their heads in awe and wonder, then leaped 
to their feet shouting. "This is the prophet, the 'Great One'; let us 
make Him our King!" 

But the Master had disappeared. 

"And oh! Mother,' exclaimed our lad that night, as he told the 
wonderful story, "He allowed me to help Him, He accepted my offer- 
ing, and I am only a little boy." 

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Seek anb ^e 
Shall lFin6 



T£. S. (5arri5on 



K 



"SHE WAS JUST A WAIF"* 



ND because she couldn't 
write a story she cried. 
Yet, it wasn't her fault 
she said to herself, and then feel- 
ing the injustice of it all, she cried 
harder. And as she sat in the chair 
with her head buried in her arms, 
she thought of the time when she 
was a little girl — you see now she 
was almost eleven — and of her life before the Bella Dama came. 

She was just a waif — Fanciulla they called her; and it seemed as 
though she had been living with Zia and Zio for years and years, 
helping them with the store, piling fruit on the little stand outside, 
or else carrying boxes back and forth in the shop. And then one day 
while she was trying to make a big man pay for his purchases, the 
Bella Dama went by — and she actually stopped, and then — well all 
she could remember was the next thing she knew she was going to 
school and she had a new dress like other girls, and she didn't have to 
work half as much as before! 

Oh! it had all been perfect and wonderful until today — and then 
she began to cry again. The teacher who was always so kind and 
good and seemed to understand everything had told the class to write 
about Spring. 

Spring! Why, she didn't even know what that meant ! She had 

* Roman Girl, D.Bonnal, Metropolitan Museum, N. Y. [Courtesy of Braun et Cie.] 

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heard the other children on the block talking abont going to the park 
to find it, because apparently one didn't have Spring in the tenements. 
But, of course, she couldn't go, and then the teacher would be cross 
and send her home the way she did to Frankie Smith when he slapped 
a smaller boy; and then, well all the bad times would come back 
again. And worn out with crying she lay a miserable, unhappy 
Fanciulla. 

Just then the most marvelous thing happened — at least it seemed 
as though she had been lying there for only a second, when the Bella 
Dama stood beside her, patting her hair and asking all about it. And 
after Fanciulla had sobbed out the whole story, she had smiled and 
taken her by the hand, had led her to the window, and there where 
the plant stood that the teacher had given her, had shown her all the 
little new green leaves that she hadn't seen before. 

Then she took her downstairs into the crooked, narrow street, 
and showed her a blade of grass that had grown up between the 
cobblestones, and had pointed to the sky which seemed bluer than 
ever before and made her watch the clouds go lazily sailing by. Then 
they went and saw Zio polishing his fruits and arranging them in 
marvelous pyramids, not at all the way he had kept them all winter. 
Then Zia appeared in the doorway wearing a nice new shawl over her . 
shoulders, and will you believe it, as a lame boy hobbled by she leaned 
out and handed him an apple, — something absolutely inconceivable 
in Zia! 

And as Fanciulla gazed about her the Bella Dama spoke, "What 
is all this.f^" she asked. 

While the child thought for an answer, the air seemed to grow 
lighter with the odor of flowers, and way off somewhere she could hear 
birds singing and children laughing, and over her there crept a feeling 
of love and joy and awakening. 

Suddenly she opened her eyes — she was back in the room and the 
Bella Dama gone! " What is it all.^ " she repeated to herself; she knew, 
and moving to the window, flung it open wide and fell on her knees, 
her face turned upward to the sky. 

And while she looked, her small body shock with a sob of wonder, 
and raising her voice high she cried, "Oh Mio Dios! now I know, 
now I can write my story, because I have found it,^ — it is SPRING!" 

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Ol)^ Knexpede6 Jprince anb tl)e 
IKinos of tl)e lCn6ergroun6 

Note: This is a story of Slavonic origin, and has been but little known except to scientific 
collectors of Folk Tales: it will, therefore, be new to most readers and story tellers. This transla- 
tion is made from a French version which originally appeared in Conies populaires slaves by M. 
Louis Leger and was adapted by M. Maurice Bouchon for his little book of Contes a lire ou a f aire 
lire aux Enjants. It is, I think, entitled to take rank with the masterpieces of Perrault, Grimm 
and Andersen. It excites the element of wonder from the strangeness of its setting and the 
novelty of its incidents. In it we make acquaintance with a frightful monster endowed with 
some original attributes as well as with a charming and gracious princess who has wonderful 
gifts of magic. There is in it the continuous action which holds the interest of the young'readers. 
We can almost hear the horse galloping along the endless roads through the dense forests and 
the arid plains and all through the exciting pursuit of the prince and princess the heart of the 
reader beats with anxiety for the escaping couple and rejoices at each defeat of their pursuers. 

ONCE upon a time there was a Queen and a King who had 
been married for over three years and, to their disappoint- 
ment, had no children. 

The country over which this King and Queen ruled was so great 
that the King very often did not know .what was going on in the far 
off provinces. So he decided to go and see for himself. He expected 
to be away for about eight or nine months. During this time he did 
not allow any communications to be sent to him from the capital city, 
because he did not wish any one to know exactly where he was. By 
taking the governors of the provinces by surprise, he thought he 
would be better able to see how they were performing their duties. 

So the King went from Province to Province, learning how every- 
thing was going on, putting an end to abuses, rectifying wrongs, and 
doing justice to all men. Perfectly satisfied with what he saw, he 
set out after his nine months' absence to return to his capital city. 
When he was not far from it, while he was crossing a dry desert plain, 
he became extremely thirsty and sent his servants in every direction 
to see if they could find water. For more than an hour they sought in 
all directions and came back without discovering any. Then the 

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King set to work himself to hunt for water, and all at once, in the 
midst of the driest part of the plain where in the memory of man 
water had never been seen, he spied a well, which appeared to have 
been newly made. It was full to the brim of beautiful clear water 
and on the surface was floating a silver cup with a golden handle. 

The King jumped off his horse, rested his left hand upon the curb 
of the well and with his right hand tried to take the cup. But the 
cup acted as though it were alive, it jumped quietly away from his 
hand and floated away from him on the surface of the water. Al- 
though he was disturbed and puzzled at this queer behavior of the cup, 
the King tried, first with one hand and then with the other to get 
hold of it, but in spite of all his efforts he could not do so. Then he 
tried with both hands, but the cup plunged under water like a fish 
and came up to top a little farther off. 

"That cup," said the King to himself, "will not be of much use 
to me, so I must do without it." Then he stooped down to take a drink. 
The water was pure as crystal and cold as ice. 

While the King was drinking his long beard was in the water. 
When he had quenched his thirst he wished to get up, but his beard 
was held fast. After vainly struggling to get free he cried out angrily, 
"Who is there.? Let go of my beard." 

Then a voice came out of the well, "It is I, Kostiei, the King of 
the Underground, and I will not let you go until you have given me 
what you have in your house without knowing it, and that which you 
will find when you go back without ever hoping for it." 

The King looked into the well and saw a monstrous head with 
two green eyes and a mouth which stretched from ear to ear. Kostiei 
was holding the King's beard with murderous crab-like claws that 
served him in the place of hands and he laughed a cruel, wicked laugh. 

"What is it I possess without knowing it.'^" thought the King. 
"What do I not hope to find when I get back surely cannot be a very 
precious thing," and then he said in a loud voice, "I will give you what 
you ask me for." The monstrous King of the underground burst 
into mocking laughter and disappeared in a flame of fire; the King 
found himself stretched on his back on the dry ground. He picked 
himself up, jumped on his horse, rejoined his escort, and continued 
on his way home. 

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At the end of a few days he arrived at the capital. The people 
hastened to meet him and he entered the court of his palace in great 
state. The Queen was waiting for him holding in her arms a beauti- 
ful new-born sleeping baby. The King understood his adventure 
at the well at once and immediately thought, as he trembled, "There 
is what I had without knowing it, there is what I find without having 
hoped for it," he began to shed bitter tears; this greatly astonished 
every one around him, but no one asked him why he wept, thinking 
they were tears of joy. He looked lovingly on the child, took it in 
his arms and carried it himself into the palace and put it into its cradle. 

Tlie King tried hard not to show his grief and fear. He con- 
tinued his daily work, but no one ever saw him happy and gay as he 
used to be. The one thought was always gnawing at his heart that 
one day Kostiei would come and demand his little son. However, 
weeks, months and years passed, but no one came to claim the child. 
The LTnexpected Prince, for that was the name given to him, grew up 
and became a handsome young man. Little by little the King's old 
gaiety returned to him, and sometimes he would forget the singular 
scene in the desert, but at others the remembrance of it swallowed 
him up in grief and fear. 

One day the young Prince was hunting in a forest when he be- 
came separated from his attendants and wandered into a wild thicket. 
All at once a monstrous old creature with green eyes appeared before 
him. 

"Unexpected Prince," he said, "you have made us wait a long 
time." 

"Who on earth are you.^^" said the young man. 

"You will know soon when you go back to your father. Give 
him my compliments and say that I wish him to square accounts with 
me. If he does not do so he will have cause for repentance." So saying 
the monster disappeared. 

When the Prince reached the palace he told his father what had 
happened to him. The King became deadly pale and revealed to his 
son the terrible secret of his adventure in the desert. " Do not despair, 
my father," answered the young man, "there is no evil without a 
remedy. I will find out a way to make Kostiei renounce the rights 
which were won from you by his deceiving words. I will go and find 

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him at once and see if he will do as he likes with me. However, let 
me say goodby, for I am not certain that I sliall come back." 

The Prince then tenderly embraced his father and mother, who 
also had been made aware of the cause of his errand. His father gave 
him a coat of mail of steel, a sword and a horse, and his mother hung 
her golden cross i^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ around his neck. 

the mo- ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^M mt^nt 
part held ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H each 

He rode on ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H without 
he ^^^H^^^^^^^^^^l ^^''^^ 
that ^^V%^^^^^^^^^H I'^^^^i^i 
sooner or later ^^V ^'l^^^^^^^l present 

before him. To- ^^BT I^^^^^^I ^^'^^^^ ^^^'^"^^^^^ 

reached the sea- ^^H|r ,^F^^^^^^ ^^^^^' ^"^ ^^^ ^^^^ 
on the sand the I^^^^^hB^ ^^^^^H '^^^^^^ ^^/^^ ^^^'~ 
ments twelve ^^^Hj^^K ^^^^^^| y^^^S' 
so far as the eye ^^^^^^^K ^^^^^^M could 
per- ^^^^^H^H^^^^^^H ^^^^^ 
the ^^^^^^^B^^^^^^H ocean. 

some mys- ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^1 tery and wishing 
to find out what ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^| it 
took with him IH^^H^HI^^^^^HbI one of the gar- 
ments, left his "A MARVELOUSLY BEAUTIFUL GIRL"* horse to wander 
in the neighboring field and hid himself in the reeds. Presently a flock 
of white ducks that had been flying over and on the ocean approached 
the beach. Eleven of them got quickly inside of the white garments, 
struck the ground three or four times with their webbed feet and at 
once turned into eleven beautiful young girls who quickly disappeared. 
The twelfth duck, which was the youngest of all, seeing no garment 
remained in the water. She stretched out her long white neck and 
looked all around. Suddenly she saw the King's son and she said in a 
perfectly human voice, 

"Unexpected Prince, if you will give me my garment I shall 
be most grateful to you." 

The Prince put the garment down on the sand and retired to his 

niamg place. *Fabiola, Henner, Private Owner. [Courtesy of Braun et Cie.] 

141 



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MAGAZINE 



As soon as the white duck had put on the garment and was 
changed into human shape she went to find him. She was a marvel- 
ously beautiful girl, and holding out her hand to the young man she 
said in a melodious voice, "I thank you, noble Prince, for having 
answered my prayer. I am the youngest of the daughters of Kostiei, 
the king of the Underground. My father has been waiting a long time 
for you and he is very angry with you, but fear nothing, only do all 
that I tell you. As soon as you see Kostiei fall down on your knees 
without paying any attention to his shouting and his stamping and go 
gravely towards him. What will happen then you shall know later. 
Now we must be off." 

She struck the ground with her little foot. The earth opened and 
they both descended into the vmderground kingdom, arriving directly 
at Kostiei's house. It was a magnificent palace which lighted up the 
whole of the underground exactly as the sun lights up the earth. The 
Prince went boldly into the great hall where Kostiei, with a rich 
crown on his head, was seated on a golden throne. His eyes shown 
like two emeralds and at the end of each arm were massive claws like 
those of a lobster. As soon as he saw the monster the Unexpected 
Prince went down on his knees. In vain Kostiei shouted his horrible 
cries which caused the very walls of the palace to shake. The prince, 
still on his knees, continued to move towards the throne. When he 
was within two or three steps of it, Kostiei burst out into loud coarse 
laughter. 

"You are lucky," he said "to have succeeded in making me laugh 
and because of this I will let you live in my kingdom. But you must 
first do three things which I shall give you to do. We will speak of 
them tomorrow. It is late today. Go and rest." 

The Prince slept well in a room which appeared to have been 
prepared for him. The next day Kostiei called him and said, "Let 
us see what you can do. Tomorrow night you must build for me a 
marble palace, the windows must be all of crystal, and the roof of gold, 
there must be a magnificent park around this palace and in the park 
there must be lakes and fountains. If you carry out this order you 
will be my friend. If not, your head shall be cut off." 

After hearing this singular order the Prince went back to his 
room and began to think of the horrible death that awaited him. All 

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at once a bee knocked on the window and said, "Let me come in." 
The Prince opened the window, the bee came in and there before him 
stood Kostiei's youngest daughter. 

"Wluit are you thinking of, my LTnexpected Prince?" said she. 

"I am thinking about your father who is going to kill me." 

"Fear nothing," she said, "and sleep in peace and tomorrow when 
you wake up the palace shall be built." The young girl became a 
bee once more and flew out of the window. 

That which she said was done. At the dawn of day on going down 
into the garden the Prince saw at some distance a palace such as he 
had never seen before. Kostiei, for his part, could not believe his 
eyes. "Well, he said, "this time you have succeeded. Tomorrow 
I will make my twelve daughters appear before you and if you do not 
guess exactly which is the youngest your head shall be cut off." 

The Prince went back to his room much more easy in his, mind 
than he was the day before. "There is little chance," he said to him- 
self, "that I shall not recognize the youngest of the twelve daughters 
for she is the one whose beauty is so charming and who has so kindly 
come to my aid. I shall have no difficulty in recognizing her." 

"The difficulty is a great one," said the bee who had just flown 
in by the open window, "so great that without my help you would 
never get over it. We are so much alike that our father himself can- 
not recognize us himself except by certain details in our dress." 

"What must I do.^" said the Prince. 

"Listen, answered the bee, "the youngest one will be she who has 
a lady-bird on her eyebrow, so you must examine each of us closely." 
And this time, without having changed into a human being the little 
bee flew lightly away. 

The next day Kostiei called the Prince again. The young girls 
were arranged in line all wearing exactly the same dress. Kostiei 
did not know that one of the girls was much interested in the Prince, 
but he suspected every one and he was determined that there should be 
no possible chance for the Prince. Kostiei made each of the girls 
remove every ribbon and every decoration by which he distinguished 
them ordinarily, but he had, beforehand, noticed very carefully the 
place where the youngest of all stood. The Prince looked at them and 
was astonished at the manner in which they so perfectly resembled 

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each other. He passed before them twice before he noticed the sign 
which was to tell him which was the youngest. The third time he saw 
the ladybird on the eyebrow and immediately said, "This one is the 
youngest." 

"How did you possibly guess it.f^" roared the King in a fury. 
"There is some trickery here; since it is so I will put j^ou to a proof of 
another kind. You can go, you girls. I don't want you to stay here 
and spy on me." 

When the young girls had disappeared the King continued, "You 
shall come back in three hours and you shall show your skill before my 
face. I will light a stalk of straw and before it shall be burnt out, you 
shall make a pair of boots. If not, you shall die." 

Very much cast down, the Prince went back to his room where he 
found Kostiei's youngest daughter clothed in her human form. " Why 
have you so sorrowful an air, my handsome Prince.'^" 

"Why shouldn't I have a sorrowful air when your father insists 
upon my making a pair of shoes in less time than it takes to wink an 
eye.'^" "I am no shoemaker, and even if I were, could I make a pair 
of shoes in two seconds .f*" 

"What do you think you can do.^^" asked the young girl. 

"Not make shoes certainly, but I can die, and if I have to die 
so be it. I can only die once." 

"No, no, my Prince, you shall not die. 
impossible thing, but I can try to save you. 
together or we will die together." 

They would certainly need to have a very long start, for the King 
of the Underground had horses so swift that they could catch almost 
anything they pursued. With a little earth which she wet with her 
saliva and worked with her fingers, the princess in one minute made a 
little figure which would be endowed with life for some hours. Then 
she went out of the room with the Prince leaving in the room the little 
figure, shut the door and threw the key far away. Then, holding each 
other by the hand, they ascended quickly and came up out of the earth 
at the same place where they had formerly descended. Here they saw 
again the sea, and the reeds by the shore and in the field was the 
Prince's horse that he had left behind him. As soon as he perceived 
his master he neighed and ran up to him. The Prince immediately 

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I cannot help you do an 
Let us escape and flee 



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jumped into his saddle, 
took the Princess be- 
hind him and away they 
went Hke an arrow from 
a bow. 

Meanwhile as the 
Prince did not appear at 
the time appointed, 
Kostiei sent to inquire 
why he was keeping 
him waiting. The ser- 
vants who carried the 
message found the door 
shut fast. They 
knocked with all their 
might and called the 
Prince as loudly as they 
could. At last a voice 
answered from behind 
the door, "Wait a min- 
ute." It was the little 
earthen figure imitat- 
ing the voice of the 
Prince. The servants 
carried the message 
back to the King. He 
waited, but the Prince 
did not come. He sent 
the same servants again. 
They called the Prince 
again and again the 
same voice answered, 
'Tarn coming. ' ' When 
they told Kostiei of 
this new answer, he 

*King Cophetua and the Beggar 
Maid, Burne-Jones, Tate Gallery, Lou- 
don. [Courtesy of Braun et Cie.^ 




•HE FOUND KOSTIEI'S YOUNGEST DAUGHTER"* 
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waited a little while longer, but still the Prince did not appear. 

"Does he dare to mock me?" cried the furious monster. "Go 
smash in the door and bring him to me." The servants went, broke 
in the door and when they entered no one was there and only the 
sound of mocking laughter was heard. When he learned what had 
happened, Kostiei became furious and ordered his people to fly at 
once in pursuit of the fugitives and woe betide them if they did not 
bring them back. 

All at once as the Prince and the young girl were rushing madly on 
they thoug^it they heard the sound of galloping far behind them. The 
Unexpected Prince jumped off his horse and put his ear to the ground. 

"There is no doubt," said he "we are pursued." 

"Then," said the young girl, "there is no time to lose." In an 
instant she changed herself into a brook and changed the Prince into 
a bridge, the horse into a raven, and the road beyond the bridge became 
split up into three different ones, each going in a different direction. 
These were illusions that she created by her magic power and these 
illusions only lasted for a little while. 

When the horsemen who were pursuing them arrived at the bridge 
they were greatly puzzled. On the other side of the bridge were three 
roads without trees, along which one could see for an immense distance, 
but there was not the least trace of the fugitive Prince. What could 
they do? They could do nothing but go back v/ith bowed heads to the 
underground kingdom. Kostiei waited for them trembling with 
impatience. He had discovered in the meantime that his daughter 
had also disappeared and he had no doubt that she had gone with the 
Prince. When he saw the horsemen come back with failure written 
in their faces he cried out in his rage, and when he heard their story he 
said, "The bridge and the river, that was the Prince and my daughter. 
Go back you stupids and find them at once," and they mounted their 
horses and went after them again. 

As may well be imagined, the Prince and the Princess had not 
waited after their pursuers had returned, but quickly went on their 
way again. Presently, "I hear galloping," said the girl. 

Jumping off his horse, the Prince again put his ear to the ground, 
"Yes," he said, "they are getting nearer." At once the Prince, the 
Princess, and the horse disappeared and became three enormous oaks. 

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Around them grew up all kinds of bushes and undergrowth and soon 
the whole place was a dark forest in which innumerable pathways cross- 
ed each other in all directions. The pursuers thought that they heard 
the sound of a horse's gallop on one of these pathways and they plunged 
into the forest feeling sure they would soon catch up with the fugi- 
tives, for by a new piece of magic a horse bearing the Prince and the 
young girl was kept constantly present to their sight. 

They galloped and galloped as fast as they could and they saw 
constantly around them a thick forest, before them the path and in 
the path the flying couple. Just as they thought they were about 
to overtake them, the horse and the couple disappeared. Where 
could they be gone? The pursuers hunted on all sides until at last 
they found themselves at the edge of the forest worn out with fatigue. 
Discouraged they again went back to Kostiei. When he learned that 
their pursuit again had been in vain, the King of the Underground 
cried out in furious rage, "Give me a horse! Give me a horse! I 
myself will get after them. They shall not escape me," and foaming 
with anger, he started away. 

The forest had disappeared, the flying Prince and Princess were 
galloping as fast as they could make their horse go, but Kostiei 's 
horse was by far the quicker. "I think that we are pursued," said 
the young girl. 

"That is so," said the Prince. 

"And this time," said the Princess, "it is Kostiei himself. But 
the first church we come to is the limit of his empire. He cannot go 
beyond one. Give me your golden cross." 

" The Prince took off his golden cross which was a present from his 
mother. The young girl immediately transformed the horse into a 
church. She herself became the steeple pointing towards heaven and 
at the top of the steeple the golden cross was blazing in the sun. At 
the same time the Prince was changed into an old Monk with a white 
beard. Presently, Kostiei approached and addressing the Monk 
said, "Have you seen a couple on horseback go by here.?" "Yes, old 
King Kostiei," replied the Monk, "the Unexpected Prince passed by 
here with your daughter. They went into the church, said prayers 
for your welfare and told me to give you their compliments if you 
came this way. They are already far off now." While he listened to 

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this answer which was said with tranquil assurance, Kostiei had no 
suspicion of the trick that was being played him and he in his turn 
had to go back home choking with anger and mortification. 

Now the flying couple could go on their way in peace without any 
fears for the future, for whoever had once escaped from the terrible 
claws of Kostiei had never anything to fear from him even if they should 
meet him again. The Prince and the young girl soon arrived at the 
home of the Unexpected Prince, where they were welcomed with the 
greatest joy. Not many days afterwards the Prince and Princess 
were married amid an unequalled display of magnificence and joy- 
fulness. 



Ol^e Stor^ of Jpersep^one 

»? 51. B. Wick't 

As I heard it told once by a story teller. We were in a Western city, sitting round, a 
circle of us, telling stories. Various stories had been told, when a kindergartner and play- 
ground worker was asked to tell a story. With charm of personality, a musical voice and creative 
touch she told the old Greek story of Persephone, in such a way that it became a living piece 
of literature. The story and the story teller became transfigured in the telling. 

R. T. W. 



ONCE on a time there was a beautiful garden, and this garden 
was kejjt by a girl named Persephone. In this garden were 
flowers, and fountains, and walks, and trees, and the children 
came there every day to pla3^ There they met Persephone, who played 
with them, joined hands with them, and in circles went round and 
round. 

When Persephone left the garden things were duller. The 
children missed her, but when she came to the garden the children 
would clap their hands, and the birds would sing more joj'ously and 
everything seemed more alive. The children who played in the gar- 
den were never satisfied unless they found Persephone. 

But one day Pluto, the king of the lower world, came riding 

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by in a chariot, drawn by black horses. Suddenly he picked up 
Persephone and sped away with her in his chariot. It was done so 
quickly that no one in the garden saw her leave. 

The next day when the children came to the garden Persephone 
was not there. They were sad. "Where is Persephone?" they said. 
The birds had ceased singing, the flowers were drooping, and a strange 
silence like the sadness of autumn fields and woods seemed to prevail 
in the place. "Where is Persephone .f*" every one asked. 

They started out to search for her. Some one near the garden 
had seen her disappearing in the chariot driven by black horses. 

After long searching, they found her in Pluto's shadowy regions 
in the lower world, and they said: 

"O, Persephone, why don't you come back to the garden and 
play with the children again?" 

But, somehow, she seemed to have grown indifferent, and she 
said: 

"I cannot — because I am a prisoner here in Pluto's regions." 

Then they besought Pluto to let her go, but Pluto said "No!" 

Again and again they came back and begged that Persephone 
might come back to the beautiful garden. 

Finally, one day, Pluto said to those who besought him for 
Persephone, "She may go, if at the end of a certain number of weeks 
she will come back." 

The agreement was made, and so Persephone turned her face 
toward the light and came back into the upper regions again, and 
straightway went to the garden. As she came, the children seeing her, 
clapped their hands and shouted. The birds began to sing in the 
tree-tops, the flowers — long since dead — bloomed again, and the whole 
garden awoke to new life. 

Since then, Persephone has spent a part of each year in the 
garden. Then it is that we have Spring and Summer, and when she re- 
turns to Pluto's regions, the leaves fall, the flowers fade and die, the 
birds leave, and we have Winter. 

Thus it was that the Greeks, through literature, made all nature 
throb with human interest and told their children of the coming and 
the passing of the Seasons. 



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M A G A Z 



N E 



O^e Stor^ of an American !^oy X3?^o ^dcarrid 
fainter to (Beorge t^e Ol)lr6 

^^ lFre6erlc ^. (1^116 

ONCE upon a time a little ship by the name of "Welcome'* sailed 
up a broad, swift flowing river called the Delaware. It carried 
a sober and sombre company of Quakers who were most fervent 
in their thanksgiving in being carried safely to a place of refuge after 
so many days upon the tossing waves of the Atlantic Ocean. After 
advancing a number of miles up this river, some of the passengers 
landed upon its low, wooded shore and the one who seemed to have 
chief authority said to one of his companions, "Providence has brought 
us safely hither; thou hast been the companion of my travels, what 
wilt thou that I should call this place?" 

And the other answered, "Since thou so honors me, I shall call 
it, in remembrance of my native city, Chester." 

And near Chester, soon destined to become a flourishing city in 
the land of Penn, this same companion, Pearson by name, later settled, 
calling his plantation Springfield because of the pure water that sprang 
from earth in various springs thereabout. And soon near him settled 
another family of English Quakers, by the name of West, and by and 
by one of the girls of the Pearson family married a son of the West 
family, named John, and they went to housekeeping in a stone house 
still standing upon the campus of the Quaker college at Swarthmore, 
Pennsylvania. And in this house, in the year 1738, there was born 
a boy, the tenth child of the family, whom they named Benjamin. 
Now at this time a famous Quaker preacher who was in the neighbor- 
hood saw the little Benjamin and said he was sure he was destined to 
become a very great man, and that his parents must watch over him 
and help him in every way possible. 

And, of course, Benjamin's father and mother took care of him and 
he played with his brothers and sisters and picked flowers and drove 
the cows to pasture and perhaps paddled with bare feet in the very 

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spring that gave the name to his home, and in winter he no doubt 
went sleigh-riding with his father. 

When Benjamin was six years old his married sister from Phila- 
delphia was visiting her old Springfield home with her little baby 
girl. One day leaving Benjamin to mind the baby, asleep in the cradle, 




Copyright, Detroit Publishing Co. 



" INDEPENDENCE HALL " 

Philadelphia 



Benjamin's mother and sister went out into the garden to pick some 
flowers. While the little boy was fanning the flics from his baby 
niece's face, she smiled so sweetly in her sleep that Benjamin ran to 
the writing desk and securing a quill pen, a bottle of ink and a scrap 
of paper, began to sketch the little girl's face. Thus busily engaged, 
he failed to hear the return of his mother and sister until they were 
well within the room. Then thinking should it be discovered that he 

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had dropped the fan, he would be in for a scolding, Benjamin attempted 
to hide the sketch. But his mother asked to see the paper and when 
he showed it to her, what was her surprise when she recognized the 
face of the smiling grandchild. 

"Well," said she, "he has made a likeness of Sallie." And in- 
stead of scolding him, she kissed and praised him for his newly discov- 
ered talent. 

Looking back to this event, we know now that it was the first 
sign of the awakening genius of the boy, predicted at his birth, but 
Benjamin's parents never suspected that the forecasted greatness 
would take such a form. For being Quakers they little cared for 
pictures and paintings, thinking them to be merely ornamental and 
therefore useless. And so Benjamin was sent to school, but in his spare 
time he still kept making sketches of flowers and animals and these 
pleased some neighboring friendly Indians so much that they showed 
him how they made the bright red and yellow paint with which they 
colored their ornaments. 

Not only the Indian neighbors but some of the white neighbors 
as well noticed his drawings and paintings. And they told him of 
paint brushes made from the hair of the camel, but alas, there were no 
camels in America, and he had no money to spend on brushes, so it 
looked very much as if he would have to go without brushes! When 
suddenly he hit upon a happy idea. Catching the family pussy, he 
carefully cut off some of the fur from her tail and made a paint brush 
by fastening it to a handle. Fortunately for pussy, there lived in 
Philadelphia a relative of Benjamin's father, who liked the boy's 
painting so much that he bought Benjamin a box containing paints, 
real camel's hair brushes and six pictures for copying, and would you 
believe it, this was the first box of paints the boy ever saw, and what 
is more surprising these were the first pictures he ever saw, except 
those he had himself painted. The boy was overjoyed with his paint 
box and painted so much that sometimes he really forgot to go to 
school. 

Pretty soon the kind friend who had sent Benjamin the paint 
box got permission from Benjamin's father and mother to take the 
boy to the City of Philadelphia where he saw many things he had never 
dreamed of, such as the broad Delaware river and rows of houses and 

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pictures — real paintings. And people gave him books on painting to 
read and told him stories from history such as he had never dreamed 
of. Meanwhile Benjamin painted portraits of people, for they didn't 
have photographs in those days, for which he was paid money. 

So Benjamin's education went on partly at home and partly at 
school until he was sixteen years 
of age, when his father wisely de- 
cided it was time to determine 
what his son's business in life 
was to be. After much careful 
deliberation it was resolved that 
the boy's remarkable talent in 
drawing and painting was to be 
recognized and that Benjamin 
was to be a painter. 

So the boy settled in Phila- 
delphia and continued to paint 
portraits, later moving to New 
York where he was able to com- 
mand more for his services. But 
all this time he was planning to 
go to Europe, for he knew that in 
order to perfect himself in his art 
he must see the works of the 
great masters in Italy and Eng- 
land. 

When he was twenty-two years of age, by great good luck, he was 
provided with money enough to sail for Italy which he did, never to 
see his native land again. He was the first American to go to that 
country to study art and he was looked upon as a great curiosity. In 
fact, some of the Italians to whom he was introduced expected to see 
an Indian with war-paint and feathers. 

After spending three years in Italy studying and painting and being 
entertained most royally by many prominent persons, he went to 
England. Here he met all the famous men of the time and was finally 
introduced to the King — George III — who was so much impressed 

*George the Third, Gainsborough, Windsor Castle. [CouHesy of Braun et Cie.] 

153 




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iK^^F^ 



with his work as a painter that he engaged him to become Painter to 
the King and it was not long before Benjamin West was recognized 
as one of the greatest of living painters. 

And now having brought this great American painter thus far, 
we'll leave him to spend the rest of his days busily engaged in painting, 
honored by the King of England and applauded by all who saw his 
pictures. Most of these paintings are in England, but some few are 
in his native land. One of them, called "Penn's Treaty with the 
Indians" you'll see when you pay a visit to Independence Hall in 
Philadelphia, for I know sooner or later you will all visit that beautiful 
and historic building. 



There were heavy clouds in the sky and the moon did not appear 
at all. I was doubly lonely in my little room looking up into the 
sky where the moon ought to have been. My thoughts wandered up 
to the kind friend who had told me stories every evening and shown 
me pictures. What had he not experienced.'^ He had sailed over 
the angry waters of the flood and looked down upon the ark, as he 
now did upon me, bringing consolation to the new world which was 
to arise. 

When the children of Israel stood weeping by the waters of Bab- 
ylon, he peeped sadly through the willows where their harps were 
hung. When Romeo climbed on to the balcony and young love's 
kiss flew like a cherub's thought from earth to heaven, the round moon 
was hidden behind the dark cypresses in the transparent air. He 
saw the hero at St. Helena where he stood on the rock gazing out 
over the illimitable ocean, while great thoughts stirred his breast. 

Nay, what could not the moon tell us.f^ The life of the world is 
a story to him. To-night I do not see you, old friend! and I have 
no picture to draw in remembrance of your visit. But as I looked 
dreamily up at the clouds, there appeared one beam from the moon, 
— but it was soon gone, the black clouds swept over it. 

Still it was a greeting to me, from the moon. 

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Ol)e Storip of IKlng Arthur 

{In Twelve Numbers) 

!^Y ^iuona (T. Mlartiit 
II. How Arthur Won His Kingdom 

"^/^OW, my Lords, Vortigern the usurper is dead, and you must 
J / turn your attention to Hengist with his Saxon hordes; for 
between his people and yours shall be the struggle for the 
possession of this fair land of Britain." 

It was Merlin who spoke, and he stood in the throne room in the 
old castle of Constantine, before Pendragon and Uther, the exiled 
princes who had at last come into their own again. 

They looked at the child with curiosity mingled with awe, and 
presently Pendragon said: 

"You are a wonderful boy. Merlin, for by your counsel you have 
helped us to overthrow Vortigern. Now tell us, if you can, who shall 
be victorious in this struggle between Briton and Saxon." 

"Come to the window," Merlin replied, "and I will show you a 
strange sight." Then, followed by the young princes, he crossed the 
hall, drew aside the heavy hangings of scarlet samite that shut out 
the cool night air, and, having done so, pointed to the starlit sky. 

"See!" said he stepping back so as not to obstruct the view. 

The princes looked, and beheld a strange sight indeed; for in the 
heavens there blazed a comet of enormous size whose dragon-shaped 
tail was like a cloud of fire from the mouth of which shot forth two 
long rays, one stretching away over the sunny land of France, the 
other ending in seven smaller rays over the Irish Sea. 

"Tell us. Merlin, what do these things mean.''" they asked. 

"Hear, then, the interpretation," replied Merlin. "On Salis- 
bury Plain there shall be a great battle fought, and the outcome is 
still uncertain. If you ask my aid, however, the British arms shall 
by victorious. Nevertheless, one of you, which one I may not tell, 
shall be slain, but the other shall become King of Britain. Then 

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shall he that is King take his brother's name and add it to his own, 
that the dead man's memory may not perish from the earth. Further- 
more, he shall raise over his lost brother's grave a monument that 
shall stand forever. The comet signifies the one who shall survive, 
and the rays over France and Ireland show that he shall have a son 
mightier than himself who shall hold sway over the lands that the rays 
cover. The name of that son shall be called ARTHUR, and he shall 
drive the heathen from the realm." 

"Then, Merlin, you will help us in this battle?" asked both 
brothers together, 

'T will help you," replied Merlin, "on one condition." 

"What is that.f*" they inquired. 

"That which ever one of you comes through victorious shall 
give me his first son on the day of his birth; for I must bring him up 
if he is to be fitted for his great part in life." 

Then, because the battle seemed to them a thing so terribly 
near, and the birth of a son a thing so far in the future, they were 
willing enough to agree. 

"Promise," said Merlin, turning first to Pendragon. 

"I promise," said the young man gravely, 

"Promise," repeated the boy to Uther. 

And like his brother Uther answered, "I promise." 

"Then I will give you my aid," swore Merlin; and he kept his 
word for on the day of that terrible battle the Saxons were driven 
from the field with great slaughter; but when the Britons returned 
from the pursuit to seek their wounded, they found Pendragon dead 
upon the plain with all his wounds in front, 

"He died as he lived, like a brave soldier," said Uther, "And 
now, Merlin, tell me how I may keep my promise to raise to his mem- 
ory a monument that shall stand forever," 

"Forever is a long time; nevertheless," counselled Merlin, 
"send to Ireland for the Giants' Dance." 

"And what may the Giants' Dance be?" inquired Uther 

"A great circle of stones," replied Merlin, "that the giants 
brought from Africa many years ago. Send for these stones, then 
you will have a monument that shall stand to the end of time." 

So Uther sent great ships to Ireland, and with Merlin's aid 

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MAGAZINE 




"SO THE LAND BECAME DESOLATE"* 



secured the magic stones and had them set up on Sahsbury plain 
in a great circle which the people called ever after "Stonehenge," 
and there those same stones stand, or lie, to this very day. 

After that Uther caused two great golden dragons to be made in 
the likeness of the beast he had seen in the tail of the comet. One of 
these he gave to the Cathedral at Winchester, and the other he carried 
before him on his standard into all his battles. Then he added his 
brother's name to his own, so that he was known after as Uther Pen- 
dragon — the "Dragon's Head." So he reigned in Britain in place 
of Vortigern the usurper, and fought against the Saxon, whom Vorti- 
gern had brought to the land, all the days of his life. 

Now it happened, when he had been king some years, that there 
came a time of great rejoicing in the realm, for at dusk on the Day 

* Gust of Wind, Corot. [Courtesy of Braun et Cie.] 
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of the Feast of Pentecost the old bell in the castle tower rang out a 
merry peal announcing to the people far and wide that a son had 
been born to King Uther Pendragon and his beautiful Queen Igerna. 
So there was joy in the palace and in all the country round, but Uther 
alone did not rejoice for he remembered his promise to Merlin. 

When the shades of night had fallen, therefore, he took his tiny 
baby boy in his arms, held him for a moment so that Queen Igerna 
might press her white lips against his little cheek, then he himself 
dressed the child in rich cloth of gold as befitted a king's son, and, 
having sworn them to secrecy, gave him to two brave knights and 
two fair ladies of the court with instructions to ask no questions, but 
deliver him to the care of an old man whom they would find waiting 
at the postern gate. 

The knights and ladies were greatly astonished at this seemingly 
unreasonable command; nevertheless, they dared not disobey the 
King, so they did as they were told, and sorrowfully stood at the 
gate as the strange old man disappeared with the royal child into the 
shadows of the night. Long afterwards, however, when their lips were 
unsealed, they told strange tales of a light that had shone about the 
baby's head just before he was swallowed up in the darkness, and of 
fairy faces that had bent tenderly over his helpless form. 

So the longed-for heir was carried away on the very night of his 
birth from his father's palace by Merlin — for the old man was he in 
his favorite disguise, and none knew, not even King Uther and Queen 
Igerna, what had become of him. The people, however, believed that 
he was dead. 

Two years passed by during which time Uther fought many brave 
battles against the Saxons, but at last there came a day when he was 
brought home ill of a fatal malady, and there was great lamentation 
throughout the realm because he was leaving no heir to succeed him. 
For three days he had lain speechless, and at last his ministers called 
for Merlin and begged his help. 

"The King is so ill," said they, *'that he cannot make it known 
who he will have to reign in his stead when he is gone, and you know 
what that means. Merlin. All the mighty barons v^^ill struggle for 
the possession of the crown, and the land will be wasted through their 
strife. Tell us, O Man of Wisdom, what must we do.^^" 

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"Call these same mighty barons together," said Merlin, "and 
before them all I will make him speak." 

He vanished, but his command was obeyed; and when the great 
lords of the realm had gathered silently in the chamber of their dying 
monarch. Merlin suddenly reappeared in their midst. 

"Sir King," said he, "as you are about to depart from your 
people, tell them, that all may hear, who shall reign in Britain when 
you are gone?" 

Slowly the large eyes of Uther Pendragon opened, and he gazed 
first at Merlin, then at his barons many of whom were but waiting, 
as he knew well enough, until the breath had left his body before 
falling upon each other in a wild and lawless struggle for the crown. 
Then his tongue was loosed and speaking clearly and distinctly, that 
none might fail to understand, he said : 

"My own son Arthur shall reign in Britain after me. He shall 
be a greater and nobler king than I have been, and he shall drive the 
Saxon "from the land." 

"The King's mind wanders," said the people. But Uther did 
not hear them, for, having spoken, he turned his face to the wall and 
died; and when they looked about for Merlin, strange to say, he too 
had disappeared. 

Then followed the saddest years that the country of Britain had 
ever known. There was no longer any law in the land, for each mighty 
baron w as little more than a robber to steal from those of his own rank, 
and guarding the interests of the poor peasants dependent upon him 
as the wolf guards the flock. Furthermore, each gathered his forces 
together and tried by the power of his might, which was the only 
right then respected, to seize the crown. So the land became desolate, 
the dreaded Saxon made his raids unmolested, the grain fields were 
trampled, houses were burned, and strong men were thrown into 
prison for debt while their wives and children starved. 

Thus fifteen years passed away, and the people in their misery 
cried : 

"Woe to the fair land of Britain! Oh! that Uther had left us a 
son whose strong arm would have kept order in the realm!" 

Yet all the time Merlin kept himself hidden away, so that none 
had seen him since the hour of the King's death. 

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There came at last a winter when the snow fell early and lay deep 
upon the ground, and grey Famine stalked abroad throughout the 
country side. Then Brice, the good Archbishop of Canterbury, 
burdened with the misery of his people, withdrew himself for a season 
of fasting and prayer. One morning, as he was bringing a long night 
watch to a close, he turned and saw standing before him in the dim 
light an old man with a flowing white beard. 

"Merlin, Merlin at last!" he cried in joy. "Where have you 
kept yourself these fifteen long years while the land of Uther has been 
desolate?" 

"That I may not tell you," replied Merlin, and the sound of his 
voice gladdened the heart of the Holy Man. "That I may not tell 
you, and you must not ask; but now I am here, and I am come to help 
you in your great need." 

"Then tell me," said the Archbishop, "where I may find a man 
with a hand firm enough to rule over these robber barons, yet with a 
heart of mercy that will cause him to deal justly with rich and poor 
alike." 

"Such a man there surely is," and Merlin looked wiser than ever, 
"but you must find him for yourself, otherwise he would not be 
received." 

"Alas! I have sought him in vain these fifteen years," replied the 
good man sadly. "If he can be found, give us your aid, Merlin, and 
do not deceive me, for my people are perishing." 

"Listen well to my advice, then," warned Merlin. "Call together 
the lords of the realm, and bid them come to London to keep the 
Christmas feast — at that time shall a miracle be wrought to show who 
is the rightful king." 

Then the messengers rode forth, north and south and east and 
west, so that the great men were gathered together on Christmas 
Eve that they might spend the Holy Night confessing their sins before 
hearing mass at break of day; and when all was over, and the pale 
streaks of dawn were appearing in the wintry sky, a strange sight met 
their eyes: In the churchyard, against the high altar, stood a great 
stone four feet square." Upon the stone was set an anvil of steel one 
foot high, and into the anvil was thrust a sword of curious workman- 
ship upon whose bejewelled hilt were engraved these words: 

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"WHOSO PULLETH OUT 

THIS SWORD 

OF THIS STONE AND 

ANVIL. 

IS RIGHTWISE KING 

BORN OF 

ALL ENGLAND." 

At that sight a 
thrill of joy shot through 
the heart of every man 
present. Each robber 
baron thought to him- 
self: "Now is my 
chance to show that I 
am best fitted to wield 
the sceptre of Uther 
Pendragon." But the 
lips of the good Arch- 
bishop moved in a 
prayer of thankful- 
ness : 

"Praise God, the 
miracle!" he murmured 
reverently. Then in a 
clear, ringing voice he 
gave the command: 

"Arrange your- 
selves, my Lords, in the 
order of your rank — 
tributary king, duke, 
earl, count, baron, and 
simple knight, then be- 
ginning at the highest 
let each come forward 
to try this adventure 
of the sword." 




GREY FAMINE STALKED ABROAD"* 

* Burne-Jones, Henderson Collection, Manchester 
[Courtesy of Braun et Cic] 

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So they came, those mighty men of a hundred battles, Uther's 
warriors tested and tried; and each in turn tugged with all his might 
upon the jewelled hilt of the sword, but never did it stir by a hair's 
breadth for the mightiest of them. And when the most lowly knight 
had proved himself as powerless as the most haughty tributary king, 
the Archbishop turned to the amazed company saying : 

"My Lords, I see that this is a question of purity of heart as well 
as of strength of muscle, and I fear the best knight of the realm is 
not, after all, among us to-day. Therefore there must be another 
trial. I will, then, appoint Twelfth Day for this second test. See to 
it that the news is spread abroad so that every gentleman of arnis of 
whatever rank shall be present without fail." 

Now it was the custom of those times, whenever knights were 
gathered together in large numbers to hold tournaments which were 
reality sham battles. So it happened that while the Lords remained 
in London awaiting the second trial of the sword, they decided to amuse 
themselves in true knightly fashion by holding such a tournament 
on New Year's Day in the fields outside the town. And truly, a great 
sight it was — that gathering of gentlemen of arms, with their glittering 
armor, flashing swords, streaming banners, and prancing horses — - 
well worth the enthusiasm of the great crowd of commoners that had 
gathered to see them. 

A great sight indeed, and not one that either noble or commoner 
would willingly miss. All along the King's highway, therefore, that 
first crisp winter's morning of the New Year rode one of the few true 
hearted knights still left in Britain — Sir Ector the Upright, accom- 
panied by his newly-knighted son Sir Kay, and with them, because he 
had begged to be permitted to see the tourney, rode a younger son, 
Arthur, a lad of seventeen who acted as his brother's squire. This 
fair-haired, blue-eyed boy watched eagerly the gathering of the knights, 
and felt his heart thrill within him at the thought that some day, if 
he performed his present humble duties as well as lay in his power, he 
too might hope to receive the order of knighthood. 

As the three neared the lists Sir Kay suddenly made a distressing 
discovery — he had left his sword at home ! Turning quickly to Arthur, 
therefore, and speaking none too gently — as is the way at times with 
big brothers, he said: 

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"Ride back, boy, and get my sword; and see to it that you hurry 
too, so that I need not miss any of the jousts." 

Now Arthur was longing to see all that there was to be seen; 
moreover, like the spirited boy he was, he resented his brother's tone 
of command. Then he remembered that only a good squire could 
ever hope to become a worthy knight, so he answered meekly enough : 

"Certainly I will go, Kay," and away he went without a murmur. 

When he reached his home, however, what was his distress to 
find the drawbridge raised, and every door and window barred and 
bolted; for the servants, taking advantage of their master's absence, 
had deserted their posts and gone to mingle with the crowd at the 
tournament. 

"Alas! I cannot cross the moat, and I could not break in if I 
did," he cried in dismay. So he turned and rode back to London sad 
because he must fail in even so humble a quest. 

Now it happened that his way lay past the churchyard, and it 
also happened that because of his youth and insignificance no one had 
thought it worth while to tell him about the mystic sword in the anvil. 
When he rode past, therefore, and saw an unused w^eapon it occurred 
to him that it would do no harm to borrow it for the day that his 
brother need not be without a sword. 

So he slipped from his horse, stepped inside the enclosure, and 
looked about for some one whose permission he might ask. But the 
church was as deserted as his own castle had been. At last, seeing 
no other way out of the difficulty, he lightly took the sword by the 
hilt, and, never stopping to read the words engraved upon it, drew it 
forth from the anvil as easily as he might have drawn the play-sword 
of his childhood, long since discarded, from its tiny scabbard. Then 
gladly he spurred his horse that he might the sooner deliver the weapon 
into his brother's hand. 

But when Sir Kay saw that bejewelled hilt, a dull red flush suf- 
fused his cheek, and a strange sparkle leapt into his eyes. 

"Where did you get this, Arthur?" he whispered eagerly, drawing 
the boy aside that none might overhear the conversation. 

"In the churchyard," replied Arthur innocently. "I will take 
it back as soon as you have finished with it, Kay, so there is no harm 
done, is there.'*" 

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"There is no harm done yet if you were not seen and can keep 
silent," said Kay mysteriously. " Hush ! don't speak of it to anyone." 
Then he rode away, leaving his young brother awed and full of fear 
lest he had done some wicked deed. 

Kay, however, lost no time in seeking his father, before whom 
he triumphantly displayed the weapon crying: 

"See, Father, I, your son, have drawn the sword from the anvil; 
therefore I am the rightful King of Britain!" 

But the good Sir Ector, after looking first at the sword and then 
at Kay, laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and said gravely: 

"Kay, Kay, tell me the truth, by the honor of your knighthood, 
how came you by that sword?" 

Then Kay, whose eyes could not meet his father's, hung his head 
in shame and answered: 

"My brother Arthur brought it to me." 

"Send the boy here," commanded Sir Ector; and when Arthur 
stood before him he asked more gravely than ever: 

"Arthur, how did you come by this sword.^*" 

And the lad, though now c^uite convinced that he had unwittingly 
done some great wrong, looked up into his father's face and answered 
bravely : 

"I drew it from the anvil that stands on the stone in the church- 
yard. If it was not right. Father, I am sorry." 

"Arthur," said Sir Ector, and now his voice was stern, "Tell me 
the truth, as you hope one day to become a brave and honorable knight, 
where did you find this sword.?" 

Again Arthur looked up into his father's face repeating his former 
words; then Sir Ector could doubt no longer. 

Come with me to the good Archbishop," said he, "that we may 
tell him the whole story." 

When the Archbishop had heard all, he said gravely : 

"Put the sword back into the anvil, my boy, and let it remain 
there until Twelfth Day. If you can pull it out then, before all the 
lords of the realm after they have tried for the second time and failed, 
then, young as you are, we shall know that our prayers have been 
answered, and that God himself has given us a King." 

So on Twelfth Day the nobles were again assembled, and when 

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mass had been said the trial began for the second time. But just as 
before, tributary king, duke, earl, count, baron and simple knight 
each came forward in his turn and tugged and pulled with all his might 
— in vain. Then, when the last knight had turned away defeated, the 
voice of the Archbishop was heard above the tumult : 

"Stay yet a while, my Lords," said he, "there is still another to 
make the trial." 

They halted, and to. the scornful amazement of all, out from an 
obscure corner stepped a lad in the simple dress of a squire. Modestly, 
with flushed cheeks and lowered eyelids, he passed through their 
midst straight up to the great stone, and, with no effort, using but one 
hand, drew the glittering sword from its firm seat in the anvil! 

For a moment a deep hush fell upon the company; then there 
began to be heard an angry murmur like the rumble of a fast-approach- 
ing storm. 





■ 


^H 


9m^',-y^-WM 




^^^K^i\^ • '^'-^-'^l 


^^^H 


m 






HV 


^^^^M 
=^^'^^l 


^^^^^-^ 


rmM 1 


^^^^^^^^SSH^Irv^/'^ ■ 





"THE KNIGHT'S VIGIL"* 

■ The Vigil, Pettie, Tate Gallery, London. [Courtesy of Braun et Cie.] 
165 



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"Who is this boy?" one knight was asking another. "The son 
of Sir Ector in whose veins there runs no noble blood," came the 
answer from one or two. "Away with him, then, away with him!" 
they all cried together. "Miracle or no miracle, we will not have this 
beardless boy to reign over us ! " 

The good Archbishop, with the exception of Sir Ector, was the 
only one that had been truly glad; but now, as he looked down upon 
that sea of angry faces, the words that were ^bout to proclaim Arthur 
king died on his lips, for he feared lest these men should fall upon the 
child and take his life. Suddenly, invisible to all others. Merlin stood 
once again at the Holy Man's side. 

"Tell them," said he, "to return to their homes and to gather 
again on Candlemas Day for a third trial." 

So the angry multitude was safely dispersed. 

But on Candlemas Day the same scene was re-enacted, and so 
again at Easter; but still the lords would not submit. Then Merlin 
said to the Holy Man: 

"Tell them that there will be one last and final test at the Feast 
of Pentecost. That at that time they must bring together all their 
mighty men, all the flower of their knighthood, and that he that draws 
the sword on that day is without further question King of Britain." 

So at that Feast of Pentecost, more than fifteen years after the 
death of Uther Pendragon, the mighty men of the realm were once 
again gathered together in old London Town. Then for the fifth 
time, with might and main they made the trial of the sword — without 
success; but when, for the fourth time, before them all, the boy Arthur 
had lightly drawn it from the anvil. Merlin appeared to the whole 
company standing at the lad's side. 

"My Lords of Britain," said he, "you have sought to reject this 
boy because you thought him not of royal blood. Sir Ector, tell us, 
is he your son.f^" 

Then, to the amazement of all. Sir Ector the Upright whose word 
none could doubt, answered simply: 

"He is not, though I have loved and cherished him as my own 
since the day you brought him to me. Merlin, a baby but a few hours 
old." 

"Now hear the truth," continued Merhn. "Your King, Uther 

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Pendragon, was not wandering in his mind when he spoke those 
words on his deathbed. Eighteen years ago today there was born 
to King Uther and his Queen the beautiful Igerna a son. That child, 
that he might be kept safe during the helpless years of his infancy and 
that he might be made fit to rule in justice and in mercy over this 
troubled land was delivered to me at the postern gate. I took him to 
Sir Ector, the most upright knight among you', with strict instructions 
that he be kept in ignorance of his birth." 

Then Merlin, taking the boy's hand, led him forth where he might 
be seen not only by the nobles, but also by the crowd of commoners 
that had anxiously gathered to see the outcome; and with a loud voice 
he cried : 

"People of Britain, behold your King! Arthur, son of Uther 
Pendragon, the Child of Prophecy, he that shall restore peace and drive 
the heathen from the realm!" 

Then, like a deep roar, from a thousand throats came the glad 
response : 

" Long live Arthur ! Long live the King ! " 

The first number of " The Story of King Arthur " entitled " Merlin and His Prophecies " 
was published in the July issue. Number three, "How Arthur Won His Sword 'Excalibur,' 
his Bride and his "Round Table " will appear in the October issue. 



GLOSSARY 2 

1. Anvil, an iron block on which metals are laid to be hammered. 2. Commoner, one 
not belonging to the nobility. 3. Drawbridge, a bridge in front of a castle spanning a moat, and 
that can be raised or lowered. 4. Ililt, the handle and guard of a sword. 5. Jou.st, a tilt be- 
tween two knights. 6. Lists, the field where tournaments took place. 7. Moat, a ditch sur- 
rounding the outer walls of a fortress. 8. Monarch, a ruler. 9. Postern Gate, the back door or 
gate of a castle. 10. Quest, a search. 11. Samite, a cloth like satin, with glistening threads of 
silver and gold. 12. Squire, one who waited upon a knight. 13. Standard, a flag or banner. 

14. Tournament, a tilt in which several knights on horseback contended with blunted weapons. 

15. Tourney, same as tournament. IG. Tributary King, one who paid a tax to a superior ruler 
for protection. 17. C^/nt'iV/!/;^/^/, without knowledge. 

1. Candlemas Day, February 2, the day when the candles that were to be used in the 
churches during the year were blessed. 2. Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Church of 
England. 3. Pentecost, the fiftieth day, and the seventh Sunday after Easter (sometimes 
called Whitsunday). 4. Twelfth Day, the twelfth day after Christmas. 



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Ol)e ** ICncla !^emu5 '' Storks 

O^eir^volutlOR anblplacd in t^e (Turrlculum 

Second Paper 

STUDENTS of folk-lore have evolved two theories regarding the ori- 
gin of the folk tales told by different nations at different times, and 
in fundamentals these stories bear striking resemblance to each other. 

The first theory is that all these stories have a common origin; that 
they were first told by our cave dwelling ancestors. They were first ex- 
pressed as literature, of which we have record in the Aryan Veda, then 
handed down from generation to generation, always more or less modified 
by being adapted to new environment. 

The second theory is that these stories have no common origin. But 
in each race there had sprung up its independent cycles of folk-tales. 
This theory would say that the striking resemblances in all these tales are 
but the natural results of the inventiveness of the human mind. 

There can be no doubt but that the negro brought some of his stories 
from Africa, that some were borrowed from his white masters. Others 
came from the Indians, and he himself created many. But the coml)ina- 
tion of his stories has produced a literature, that will remain as the story 
of what he thought and felt during the years of slavery in America. With 
the making of a literature by so primitive a race as that of the negro, we 
see the repetition of the way in which, doubtless, the literature or folk-lore 
of other races has been evolved. 

Many of the stories told by Mr. Harris, are still told in varied forms 
by the natives in many parts of Africa. For example. Professor Klunzinger 
in his book entitled, "Upper Egypt, Its People and Its Products," cites this 
story as told by the natives: 

"A man is carrying a basket of fowls to market. A fox who is anxious 
to get at the fowls, lays himself down in the road, and pretends to be dead. 
The man with the fowls is surprised at seeing the dead fox, but passes on. 

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Somewhat farther on, the man finds a second fox lying dead, and farther 
on a third. 'Now,' said the man, 'three foxes are worth the trouble of 
taking to market!' So he sets down his basket and goes to pick up the 
foxes. When he returns he finds both basket and fox gone." Compare 
this with the story of the wolf, the fox, the fish, in "Reynard the Fox" — 
also the Indian legend of "How the Bear lost His Tail." In the Uncle 
Remus tales, the incidents are the same in the story of "Brer Fox goes 
hunting, but Brer Rabbit Bags the Game," also in "The Man and his 
Boots," although this time with an altogether different purpose in mind. 

This story of Upper Egypt was related in Arabic and very likely exists 
in both Arabia and Turkey 

Another investigator, Mr. Herbert H. Smith, in his volume, "Brazil, 
the Amazon and the Coast," has met with some of these stories among the 
tribes of South American Indians. One he traces to India and as far east 
as Siam. The Rio negroes, who have never seen the Indians, tell many of 
the animal stories with greater or less variations. The question arises, 
may. not these tales have been introduced by the negroes? But it is still 
an open question. If the stories were found only along the coast, one 
might readily insist that they were derived from Africa. But it has been 
found that they are repeated in remote provinces, among half-wild tribes 
who hardly ever see the negroes, and whose language is utterly unlike the 
negro-Portuguese. Many of the tortoise myths are told by the Mundurucu 
Indians. 

Whatever we may conclude (if conclude we can) about the origin of 
these tales, we must admit that they are similar in fundamentals to the 
animal tales that are found elsewhere. The animals play human parts. 
The stories have for their theme the triumph of cunning over mere strength. 
The stories where animals converse as people are universal. The story of 
"The Lion and the Mouse" is found in a papyrus dating from I'-iOO to 1166 
B. c, in the days of Rameses III. One finds so many similarities in the 
folk tales of different tribes which have not been brought into close contact 
that at times the second theory of origin seems more feasible. But as Joel 
Chandler Harris, himself, said, after discussing at some length the evolution 
of various stories and delving into comparative folk-lore, the only result is 
to discover that at the end of this long road of investigation and discussion, 
speculation stands grinning. 

As to the ethical value of the Uncle Remus tales, the story is a short 

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one. They have none. It is true that Uncle Remus told many of them 
to the little boy for the ethical value. But the moral was a thing that 
Uncle Remus himself supplied, and it did not come as the outgrowth of 
the incidents of the story. In "Reynard the Fox" the hero gains his 
mark by cunning and strategy. But if one has ever used the story with 
little children, one finds that the sympathy is not with the hero, but is 
enlisted against him. As each new trick of cunning and shrewdness is told, 
the expression of scorn and sneering grows on the faces of the children. 

Not so with Brer Rabbit. The sympathy is with the hero from the 
start; first of all because he is small, is insignificant and triumphs in spite 
of his weakness. 

One writer ha;s taken the liberty to say that the stories are as devoid 
of ethics as the animals themselves. Uncle Remus brings out this point 
in the story of "The Man and His Boots," in which a man, hearing of the 
trick of Brer Rabbit, tries to perform a similar one. Uncle Remus says 
that animals are different from men, they can perform tricks of cunning 
without hurting any one's feelings. Not so with the man, for as soon as 
he adopts the tricks of animals, to quote Uncle Remus, "he's des nactally 
boun' to tromple on some one." 

In many instances. Brer Rabbit not only exhibits shrewdness, but he 
carries his shrewdness a step further, until it approaches the realm of 
rascality. One wonders why he could not be content to make Brer Fox 
carry the load of hay up the hill, while Brer Rabbit has secretly set fire 
to it. Is not this enough.? But he must needs make an " intment " of red 
peppers and hog lard, and then sell it to poor old Brer Fox, as the best 
remedy for his scorched skinless back. 

Many people attempting to read significance into these simple tales, 
have asserted that the rabbit represents the negro. He is not so large, nor 
so strong, as the other animals; but he is "de mos' cunnin' man dat goes 
on fo' legs," and by this cunning he gains success. So the negro, without 
education or wealth, could hope to succeed only by stratagem. 

So, if stories are selected and given to children, for their ethical value 
alone, then the "Uncle Remus" stories have no place in the school cur- 
riculum. 

While these stories have no place as ethical stories, they have a very 
important place in the curriculum. Nothing so marks an individual as a 
lack pf a sense of humor. Children need to have a sense of humor de- 

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veloped. The person who cannot relax and laugh has no place in the school- 
room; humor saves us from over-seriousness. The teacher who attempts 
to hold her pypils all the time keyed to the deeds of Hercules and King 
Arthur, and never does anything to entertain and rest the child, is placing 
a blight uj)on that child's life. There are many times when events are 
nearing the friction point, that the school work should be laid aside, and 
both teacher and pupil laugh together over the deeds of Brer Rabbit. Mr. 
Wyche, President of the National Story Tellers' League, says we have more 
muscles in our face for laughing than for crying. How shall we develop 
those muscles unless we laugh and how shall we laugh unless we have 
something to laugh about. '^ To see the delicate point of humor in a story 
and to know when to laugh, and when not to laugh, means a finer and higher 
form of mental culture than understanding a rule in mathematics. 

The wonderful hold that an "Uncle Remus" story takes upon one, 
is due in great measure to the artistic settings, the dialect, the prelude and 
postlude, the humor and human nature to be found in all of them. People 
of mature mind appreciate these things. Children do not. The child 
enjoys the animal play and talk. Much of the humor is lost upon him. 
He enjoys the grotesqueness of the picture that Brer Rabbit makes, when 
every part of him is stuck fast to the tar-baby. 

For these reasons, the stories should appear late in the curriculum. 
Seventh and eighth grade boys and girls will enjoy the quaint flashes of 
humor. And here too the dialect will not prove fatal, as it most certainly 
would in the lower grades. Since the dialect is to the Uncle Remus story 
what the warp is to the woof in the weaving, I doubt if the stories are the 
same when told without it, and should hesitate to rebuild many of Mr. 
Harris's stories, leaving out the dialect. In order to make my point more 
impressive, may I quote a paragraph from Mr. Wyche's "Some Great 
Stories, and How to Tell Them".'* 

"For humor, relaxation and pure fun, we have no better stories than 
the deeds of 'Brer Rabbit' in the Uncle Remus books. These stories, 
told as they were by a gray-headed, kind-hearted, old negro to a little boy 
who came to his cabin fireside every evening after supper reveal a beautiful 
picture of a child race, typified in Uncle Remus, speaking to a child of a 
more mature race. They understood each other, a child looking into the 
face of another child." 



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^ IKtiig^t of JPrance 

'*^*^ HE day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for France. In 
£ 'j this battle Charlemagne lost the flower of his chivalry. 
^^"^ Here fell Roland and Oliver. 

During the fray no knight bore himself more gallantly than King 
Charlemagne's Admiral, Guarinos. Long he fought and valiantly 
until beset at once by seven Moorish kings, he was forced to yield. 
Right well the Paynims knew the valor of their captive ! The heaps 
of slain surrounding him spoke plainly of his strength and courage. 

When the fight was over and the spoils divided each king claimed 
Guarinos as his own, for each coveted the honor of overcoming so 
gallant a knight. Of all these seven kings Marlotes was the most 
wicked and the most cruel. No other Moorish king so treacherous, 
so base, so hated by Christian knights, so dreaded by his own people 
as he. And he was most eager to have the knight as his captive. 

At length it was decided that they should cast lot for Guarinos. 
Seven times the lots were cast and seven times King Marlotes won, 
and the knight was his. 

Then was Marlotes joyful. "Now, by Allah," he cried, "I prize 
this good knight above all the wealth of Arabia." 

Right courteously he bade Guarinos enter his tent and there he 
had served to him a great banquet. 

After the feast, the king thus spake to his prisoner, " Noble knight, 
forget thy Christian faith and be thou a Moslem. Then shall love 
ever rest between us. I will give ye my daughter for a wife and she is 
the fairest maid in all Spain. Together we will meet friend and foe. 
There is no honor, no fame too high for my son and friend. Speak 
boldly and tell me thy thoughts." 

Not one moment did the brave Guarinos stop to think. "Now 
God forbid that I should ever turn from my own faith to that of thine! 
As to your daughter — I have a wife in France and I'll wed none in 
Spain. No! no! Not for all the wealth in the world shall I change 
my faith, forget my wife, or turn traitor to mine own land!" 

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When King Marlotes heard these bold words, his anger knew no 
bounds. He forgot that Giiarinos was nol)Ie and should be held for 
ransom. He thought only of how the Christian knight had spurned 
his religion, his daughter and his friendship. 

"If ye will not have my love, ye shall know the strength of my 
hate!" he cried. 

Straightway he commanded that the knight should be carried 
away to the darkest dungeon in the land. There they bound him with 
heavy irons. In the darkness and 
gloom they kept him and no man 
in France knew whether he was 
among the living or the dead. 
Three times a year was he taken 
into the sunlight, not in kindness, 
but that the king and the people 
might mock at the noble knight 
who had so fallen from his place 
of power and honor. Thus passed 
seven long, long years. 

Now it chanced that on the 
Feast of St. John, King Marlotes 
in his pride, hung a target high 
over the chief gate of the citj'. 
The target was an iron ring. In 
the center of the ring hung a 
small bell. The sport was for a 
knight on horseback to ride rap- 
idly past the target, throwing his 
long lance as he swept by. With such a target, to throw a lance 
through the ring was an act of skill, but to ring the bell in the very 
center was a feat accomplished but by few. 

Knight after knight rode by and hurled their lances, but not one 
went within the ring. Then the king became angry and cried, "Are 
there no knights in my army .^^ Are ye naught but pages and squires.'^ " 

"Nay, Sire," answered one of the most skillful and stalwart 
knights. "We are knights — knights tried on the battlefield as well 

* Purer, Vienna Gallery. [Courlesy of Braun ei Cie.] 

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' GIARINOS HEEDED THEM NOT"* 



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as at the tourney. But ye ask of us an impossible feat. The target 
is hung too high. Lower it somewhat, mv lord, and we will prove our 
skill." 

These sensible words of the knight — for he had spoken but the 
truth — only served to make the king more angry. 

"Now, by Allah," he cried, "the target shall not be lowered, and 
neither man, woman nor child shall eat until some knight sends a 
lance through the ring! Nay, not though ye all starve to the death!" 
That everyone might know of his vow the king sent heralds through 
the town to blow the trumpets and bear the message far and wide. 

Then were the people cast down, for well they knew that since 
the king swore bj' Allah, he must keep his word, and they knew not 
how long the fast might last. 

All day long the knights rode past the target and cast their lances, 
but never one flew within the ring. Night came and the people re- 
turned to their homes fasting, the little children crying aloud for 
bread. The next day and the next passed in the same way — the 
knights still striving, and people fasting — the little ones and the sick 
and the weak even dying within sight of plenty and the cruel king still 
holding firm his wicked vow. 

All day long and all night long the king kept his heralds riding 
from place to place, blowing their trumpets and uttering threats 
against any who ate one mouthful of food. 

The noise of the trumpets pierced even to the dungeon where 
the gallant admiral lay weighed down with his heavy chains. "What 
means those bugle calls.'^" he asked his jailer. "Has the day come 
when I must once more be dragged forth to make sport for the king's 
mocking crowds.'^" 

The jailer thereupon told him of the king's decree- 
Then outspoke brave Guarinos. "O were I but once more clad 
in mine armor and mounted on my gallant charger, I would soon 
cast a spear that would relieve the people from the cruel vow!" 

"You ride!" cried the jailer. "You throw a lance! Know you 
not that your days of gallant deeds are past.f^" 

"But bring me mine old gray horse if he be not dead, and buckle 
on mine old armor, and give me the lance I bore when I fought with 
the knights of France, and I promise you that if I do not as I have 

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said, I shall give my life on the 
spot to Marlotes and with my 
blood he may cancel his vow and 
relieve the people from their suf- 
fering." 

So deeply was the jailer im- 
pressed with the knight's eager- 
ness that he went to the king and 
told him all that Guarinos had 
said. 

"Good!" cried the king, who 
indeed was glad to be rid of his 
rash vow, "It will be rare sport 
for us! Little does he know that 
his horse runs wild, for no man 
has ridden him for seven years. 
So fierce has he been since ever 
he came to Spain that none of 
my knights could even mount 
him. As for his armor it hangs 
rusty on the wall in the great 
hall. Go, gird him in it and 




THE JAILER HELPED THE KNIGHT" 
bring him hither." 



The jailer helped the knight into his rusty, battered iron mail, 
and gave him his long lance. After a hard struggle the old horse had 
been captured and stood without waiting for his master. When the 
knight came out the Moors shouted and laughed aloud, for the horse 
pranced and reared and would not allow Guarinos to mount him. 
Suddenly the laughter changed to wonder for the knight whispered but 
a word in his ear, and the old horse stood still, trembling with joy 
while his beloved master vaulted into the saddle. 

Then were the onlookers filled with amazement. "See how 
lightly he mounts!" "And how easily he rides!" they cried. 

Guarinos heeded them not, but rode slowly back and forth for 
a few minutes as if testing his strength. Then he rode up to the king 
and bowed low before him. 

"All hail! Sir Knight," mocked Marlotes. "Now do thy best, 

* Rembrandt, Royal Gallery, Berlin. [Courtesy of Braun et Cie.] 
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proud champion, for if ye fail ye shall surely die. Remember that thy 
life is the stake for which ye throw." 

Proudly the knight saluted and, gathering his reins in his hand, 
spoke one word to his faithful steed. Then like a whirlwind he rushed 
past the target hurling his lance as he rode. Clang ! sounded the bell ! 
The lance had hit it squarely and now stood upright in the ground 
beyond the city gates. 

Out rode Guarinos and recovered his lance. Slowly he returned 
and stopped his horse just within the gates. Then poising his lance 
high above his head he cried, "Now, one cast for God and France!" 
As he spake, he hurled the lance with all the force of his good right 
arm — not through the target, but through the wicked, treacherous 
heart of the Moorish king. 

For a moment the people stood frozen with horror. Then they 
looked toward the knight. He was gone from their midst. Far out 
on the plain they saw him, riding swiftly away. No use to follow him 
now. Well all knew that with his old war steed to bear him and the 
road to France lying open before him, no knight in all Spain could 
bring Guarinos back to his dungeon and his chains. 

So they stood and watched him ride away. 



Ol)e J^xQarf's Revenge 

(From the Swiss) 

^Y 5ttarietta StocKard 

'^^[I'T was a dark and stormy night. Black clouds hung over the 
\m mountain and rain poured in torrents. Every house in the 
little village which nestled at the foot of the mountain, was 
shut tight against the storm. 

Down the streets of the village came a little dwarf. The wind 

almost pushed him down as he struggled against it. His hat had been 

snatched from his head, his long hair and beard blew about his face. 

The passers-by laughed at him as he struggled along. Rough 

boys pushed him and mocked at him. He knocked at door after 

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door and begged for shelter until the storm should pass, but from 

every door he was turned away with rude words and mocking laughter. 

At last, far down at the end of the village he knocked at the door 

of a poor little cottage. It was the smallest, worst house in the 

In it lived an old man and his wife. They hadn't much 



village 




"THEIR DOOR WAS NEVER CLOSED TO THE WEARY"* 



but each other, but their hearts were kind and happy, so there was no 
lack of joy in the house — poor as it was. 

The old man opened the door when he heard the first timid knock. 
Peering out with his dim old eyes he saw the little dwarf standing 
there, dripping wet and shivering with cold. 

"Come in, come in," said the old man. 

"Our fire is bright and warm and such food as we have you are 
welcome to. Have you come a long way in the wet, wild night.''" 

"Yes," said the little dwarf, "I have journej^ed far and am weary, 

* Israels, Municipal Museum, Amsterdam. [Courlesy of Braun el Cie.\ 
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hungry and cold. Yours is the first kind word I have heard in this 
village tonight. A stranger's blessing upon you and yours." 

They gave him a seat near the fire. The old woman prepared 
a bowl of soup^steaming hot, and when he had eaten and rested and 
was about to go out into the night again, the old woman said, "What! 
a stranger leave our house at this hour of the night and with no place 
to lay his head! We should count it a disgrace. Here is a bed and 
welcome. Rest here until the morning." 

'T thank you," said the dwarf, "but I may not stay. I have 
much to do this night, but through it all I shall remember your kind- 
ness and hospitality." 

Before they could urge him further, he passed through the door 
and vanished into the night. 

Within an hour after he had gone the clouds grew so thick and 
so black that the stoutest heart in the village was filled with terror. 
Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, the wind raged more fiercely than 
ever. The rain came down in floods. Suddenly there was a terrible 
crashing noise and down from the mountain came a huge stone, rolling 
wildly hither and thither. It crashed down upon the great castle 
on the mountain side and on down upon the village, crushing every- 
thing in its path. 

A great flood followed which covered the whole village, even to 
the highest church steeple. Upon its crest the huge stone floated and 
on it sat the little dwarf laughing and shouting as he guided his queer 
craft to and fro. 

When the flood reached the cottage of the two old people, the 
dwarf guided his stone up to the door, lifting them both up beside him, 
he carried them high up the hillside to safety. 

"Here is your new home," he said and ushered them into the 
wide hall pf a beautiful castle they never had seen before. 

"Live here in peace and comfort henceforth and know that true 
goodness is never unrewarded." 

Again he disappeared and the old people were left in possession 
of their new home. They dwelt there long in peace and joy, and it 
is said that their door was never closed to the weary or distressed. 

Down below, the blue water of a lake rippled over the place where 
the village had stood. 

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Ob^ ^6ucatlonal Value of ll)e 
"Xiteralure of ll)e ^ortl)lan6 

»r Viba IFort 

TOPICAL OUTLINE 

1. \Mien the world was in its infancy men personified the forces of nature. 4. The theory 
of the origin of mythology now generally accepted is that the myths were nature stories which 
came to have an allegorical meaning. 5. Savages are in the myth-making age. 6. The myths 
were the attempts of untrained minds to understand the universe. 7. The physical features of 
a country affect the thoughts and feelings of men. 8. Ole Bull and Richard Wagner were in- 
spired with the old Norse tales. 9. No mythology is more chaste or pure than the Norse mythol- 
ogy. 10. Many American ideals have come from our Northern forefathers. 11. The myths 
meet the yearning of the child, and exercise his imagination. 12. These myths aid moral de- 
velopment. 13. They will create in the child a taste for better literature. 14. Let us cherish 
and retell the folklore that belongs to our ow n race. 

^^y^HEN the world was in its infancy, men looked upon nature with 
\jL/ strange superstition and awe. They believed that everything 
about them had a life like their own, and that every natural phe- 
nomenon was caused by some intelligent being. The rising of the sun 
meant to them the ascent of Apollo in his chariot or the child of a giant 
chased forever around the earth by some avenging enemy. Again, it was 
Balder, the good and beautiful, who brought warmth and comfort with 
him wherever he went. The change of seasons, which is not mysterious to 
us, was for some of these people a struggle between the gods and the giants. 
In the simimer the friendly gods who dwelt above in Asgard, ruled over the 
world; but in the winter the dark hostile power of the giants was over the 
people. Thunder was not the result of electricity; it was the manifesta- 
tion of the wrath of Thor. The gathering of the storm clouds was the draw- 
ing down of his brows and the lightning was the flash of his mighty hammer. 
In many of these ideas, whether they be those of India or Iceland, 
there are striking resemblances. "They fit every climate and wear the 
peculiar dress of every country."*- The balmy air and clear sky of Greece 
tended to make men's thoughts more poetic, while the severe climate of 
* H. W. Mabie. "Myths Every Child Should Know." 

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the North made them more bold and energetic. For example, in the South 
\v hen reference was made to the coming of winter and its discomforts, the 
Greeks loved to tell how Hades had taken Persephone, the maid of spring 
down to his dreary home in the underworld, and while she was gone the 
birds flew away, the flowers faded, the trees dropped their leaves, and 
Mother Ceres, the earth mother — placed a white robe over tlie sleeping 
earth. When Persephone returned the birds came back, the flowers lifted 
their heads, the trees dressed themselves in beautiful green leaves, and all 
the world was happy again. In the North a ditferent story was told. It 
was said that when Balder, the god of Summer, was slain thru the plans 
of the mischief maker, Loke — all Asgard was dark with sorrow. All the 
earth grew cold and white and still. The water would not flow. The birds 
v.ere silent. A messenger was sent to Hela, the goddess of the spirit world. 
When she learned of the sorrow and darkness in the world, she had com- 
passion upon the people and agreed to send Balder back each year for a 
time. 

No doubt many of these stories might have been devised in different 
places independently of each other, since the physical forces which men 
worshipped were similar everywhere. However, because of the remark- 
able similarity of so many myths far separated we must come to the con- 
clusion that they had a common root, each bearing its racial mark. 

Students of mythology have accounted in many ways for the origin 
of these myths, but the theory advanced by Ruskin is the one now gen- 
erally accepted. He interprets them to be nature stories which came to 
have an allegorical meaning. Man was placed in the world ignorant and 
untrained and could interptret nature only in the light of his own experiences. 
He saw in all the workings of the universe a strange system of regularity, 
and tried in his simple way to account for it. The Norseman's theory of 
the creation that the earth was formed from a giant, his blood making 
the sea, his flesh the land and his bones the rocks, seems to our practical 
mind more than fanciful. Yet such a theory was solemnly taught and 
accepted. 

Savages have been for ages and are still in the myth-making stage. 
Dr. Tylor, who has made a study of the South Sea Islanders and North 
American Indians, tells us that they have mythic conceptions and super- 
stitions in regard to the world about them very similar to those of our 

ancestors. 

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So we see that there is nothing fanciful about the origin of the myths. 
They were the attempts of untrained minds to understand the natural 
phenomena and were the beginnings of Science. 

The influence that the physical features of a country have upon the 
thoughts and feelings of men, especially during the childhood of a race, can 
scarcely be over-estimated. With this thought in mind let us make a 
visit to the land of the midnight sun — the home of our forefathers. The 
majesty and stupendousness of the scenery hold us for a time spellbound. 
Professor Anderson has said, 'Norway is in fact one huge imposing rock, 
and its valleys are but great clefts in it. Through these clefts the rivers fed 
by vast glaciers find their way to the sea. The dark mountains rise al- 
most perpendicularly from the water's edge to an enormous height, and all 
this marvelously grand scenery from base to peak stands reflected as deep 
as it is lofty in the calm sea green water in the fjord perfect as in a mirror."* 
Necessarily do we find these conditions affecting the Norseman and his 
myths. As his country Ls dark, severe, and majestic, so is he stern, honest, 
and bold and his myths sincere, great, and beautiful. 

Some one once asked a famous Norse violinist what had inspired his 
musical talent and given his music that weird and beautiful expression and 
style. He replied that from his early childhood he had taken profound 
delight in the beauty and grandeur of his native land; that he had eagerly 
devoured all the folklore that had come within his reach. " All these things," 
he said, "have made my music." Richard Wagner was so thrilled with 
the old Norse tales that he could not rest until he had given the musical 
world his famous operas. 

Dr. Dasent says: "These Norse tales we may characterize as bold, 
outspoken and humorous in the true sense of humor. In the midst of every 
difficulty a-nd danger arises the old Norse feeling of making the best of 
everything and keeping a good face to the foe."t In no mythology is the 
general tone more chaste and pure, or the right and wrong kept more 
steadily in sight. The Norseman's hero was one of youth and strength, 
and his gods, though stern and awe-inspiring often came down to earth 
to help and bless men. 

There is every reason to believe that many of the American ideals to 
which we hold so tenaciously — ideals of valor, of freedom, of political union. 



* Norse Mythology, Anderson, Page 66. 
t Popular Tales from the Norse. 



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are a legacy from our Northern forefathers. It is surely desirable then to 
bring the child face to face with the literature that is liis by right of heri- 
tance. 

The fact that the northern myths are now being used so much in our 
elementary schools, shows that there is a conviction that these stories are 
especially adapted to the child in this period of his development. They 
meet the yearning of the child, who himself is in the myth-making age. 
The questioning wonder with which his untrained eyes looked upon nature 
is much the same as was that of his forefathers, and so these myths are 
not only a wholesome delight to him, but satisfy this craving for an under- 
standing of the world about him, and offer an unlimited field for developing 
his imagination. 

But this is not enough. A strong imagination, without a fine moral 
sense to guide it, might bring disaster upon him. The Norse myths may 
aid moral development through the ideas and ideals represented. As they 
influenced the Norseman, making him more valiant, truthful, and fearless, 
so they can be used to develop these characteristics in the child. 

It is not necessary that he should stop to analyze and interpret them. 
Their influence will permeate his soul and there will be created in him a 
thirst for the best literature which will not be satisfied until it is fed. 

To us has been given a rich heritage of myths and legends. Shall 
we not then cherish and love them and around our firesides tell the myths 
and legends of our own race? Let us join with Professor Anderson in saying, 
"May the youth, the vigorous man, and the grandfather with his silver 
locks continue to refresh their minds by looking into and drinking from 
the fountain that reflects the ancient history of the Gothic race!"* 

* Norse Mythology. 

LIST OF WORKS CONSULTED. 



1. Norse Mythology. By R. B. Anderson, A.M., Professor of Scandinavian Language, 
University of Michigan, Edited by S. C. Griggs & Co. 1876. 2. The Story as a Factor in Educa- 
tion. By Cora Hamilton, Teacher in State Normal, Macomb, Illinois. Published in N. E. A. 
Magazine. 3. Story Telling in School and Home. By Emelyn Newcomb Partridge, Ph.D. 
Published by Sturgis and Walton Co. 4. The Story of Siegfried, by James Baldwin. 5. Pop- 
ular Tales from the Norse, by Dr. Dasent. 6. Stories and Story Telling, Angelo Heyes. 
7. Myths and Myth Makers. By John Fiske. Published by Houghton Mifflin & Co., Boston 
and New York. 8. Primitive Culture. By Edward B. Tylor, LL.D., F.R.S. Published by 
Henry Holt and Company. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



(Tamp JHre (Teremomab 

Supervisor of Girls' Activities Columbus, Ohio, and C/tirf-duardian of Onaiazo Camp Fire Group 

-^^flfN the 'Mad Moon Month' of November a number of girls 
\k started Camp Fire of Trail Breakers. They were to be future 
guardians of local fires, and realizing how great was the task 
"To lead sister feet along the golden way the road — that leads 
to work and health and love," 
they decided to meet often to 
discuss plans and ask advice. 
Out of this beginning grew the 
Onaiazo Camp Fire, of sixteen 
girls, ten of whom now have 
actiye Camp Fires of their 
own. 

Since that time from the 
*Mad Moon Month' of Novem- 
ber down to the 'Green Corn 
Month', August, we have done 
many things along educative and 
social lines. 

At our weekly meetings we 
take up bandaging, knot-tying, 
the use of Indian signs and blazes, 
we tell Indian legends and folk- 
stories, sing folk-songs, and then 
pass these things on to our Camp 
Fire girls. 

Some of these girls have 
made articles such as dresses, 
underclothes, quilts, towels, etc., 
for our children's hospitals, and 
now they are making things for COMMITTING THE FIRE MAKERS 
the Baby Camp. DESIRE 

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Our first out-of-door ceremonial meeting was a great success. We 
held it in the 'Crow Moon' Month of March, in a beautiful little hollow 
three miles away. There we gave three of our girls the rank of Fire- 
maker with their corresponding beads. After a Camp Fire supper 
of roasted weiners, bacon, rolls, pickles and coffee, we went along the 
beautiful, winding path fringed with wild flowers, and we identified 
all that we knew. 

Many have been the good times we have spent since then, but I 




OUR COUNCIL FIRE 



believe one of the happiest was a week-end spent at Camp Johnson 
situated about ten miles north of here in a most beautiful place among 
the hills. 

The spot chosen for our Coimcil Fire by the Wood Gatherers was on 
the edge of a beautiful ravine partly enclosed by bushes. Here we built 
our fire. When the weird Wohelo Call echoed and re-echoed through 
the hills, the girls came one by one in their ceremonial costumes and 
grouped themselves around the fire. The moon was full that evening 
and there was not a sound to be heard except the occasional hooting 
of a lonesome owl. There, five of our girls received the rank of Torch 
Bearer. The whole surrounding made a scene that stamped itself 
upon our memories. When all was over and we stole back to our cot- 

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THE HELPING HAND 




THE CAMP FIRE SIGN 



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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



tage singing our Wohelo songs, we felt in th? words of the song that we 
had truly come to the end of a perfect day, and that memory had paint- 
ed it in colors that never fade. 

There was another jolly week-end which must be mentioned. It 
was the time we spent at Sea Breeze Cottage at Buckeye Lake. There 
we had a round of happy times 
which go with life near the water 
including a ceremonial meeting 
held near a friendly corn-field 
back of our cottage. To that 
same spot we returned next day, 
built another fire and took the 
pictures printed in connection 
with this article. 

We have one regret that 
the summer days have scat- 
tered our group both east and 
west, north and south, one to 
Connecticut, one to Colorado 
and one even across the waters 
to the 'Land of the Midnight 
Sun.' However, we are resolved 
that when re-united in the fall, 
the new year will be one of re- 
newed vigor and determination to 
follow our Guardian's rule, to — 
"KNOW THE EARTH, THE 
SEA, THE STARS ABOVE; 
HOLD HAPPINESS; SEEK 
BEAUTY; FOLLOW RIGHT. 
OFFER A FRIENDLY HAND 
TO ALL WHO ASK." 

"The Blue Birds" is the name of an auxiliary organization which 
the Camp Fire Girls have formed for the benefit of their younger 
sisters. Under the three ideas of SING, GROW AND HELP, it is 
intended to put all the things the little "Blue Birds" should know. 




"BURN! FIRE. BURN!' 



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T H E S T O R Y T E L L E R S ' MAGAZINE 



Stor^ Oelling ytolas 



ONE of the most popular courses given at the Summer School of 
the South, at Knoxville, Tennessee, this summer was that dealing 
with plays and games conducted by Miss Anne P. Kolb, physical 
director of Ward-Belmont college, and Miss Laura E. Whitney, director 
of the Dan River Kindergarten, Danville, Va. 

There were courses dealing with kindergarten games, games for pri- 
mary and intermediate grades, including folk dances, playground organiza- 
tion, examination of children, playground equipment, first aid to the injured, 
play festivals, drill work, field athletics, together with a course for teachers 
in grammar and high schools, dealing with the organization of athletic 
leagues, lists of games of educational value for children of different ages 
with readings, lectures, class-room work and demonstration classes on the 
playground. 

The day set apart by the summer school authorities for the annual 
play festival is of great value not only as affording opportunity for 
athletic sport and fun, but also as a means of popular exposition of the 
excellent work done in this department. 

The Story Tellers' League of Omaha, Nebraska, at their last business 
meeting elected the following officers : Mrs. C. W. Axtell, president; Mrs. 
Orietta Chittenden, vice-president; Miss Jeanette Newlean, treasurer, 
and Miss Emma Rosicky, secretary. They have just finished their half 
year, which has been spent in the study of Persian stories. The first meet- 
ing of their next year's work will take place on September 4th. 

Just about a year ago the local Playground Association undertook 
this .new feature of the story telling work, more than as an experiment 
than anything else. 

I was the first "wandering" story teller, and must confess that the 
expectations of both the Association and myself were more than realized. 
^ This year the work has broadened. I have "Story Stations" that I 
visit regularly once a week in all parts of the city, in public parks and 
squares, on vacant lots, up narrow, crooked streets and alleys and on 
front door steps. 

Yesterday at one of my stations I found forty-three children waiting 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



for me. I went from there to a public square where I toki stories to seventy- 
four girls and boys. The work is delightful, the children's pleasure in the 
stories alone is an inspiration. 

Julia Watson Cobb, 

Baltimore, Md. 

For three years some classes in Playground and Story Telling have been 
taught in Clinton Summer Normal, Clinton, Miss., by Miss Maude 
McKinstry of Blue Mountain, Miss. 

This summer so much interest was manifested that it was deemed 
best to organize, plan a year's work, and have a general meeting at Clinton 
next summer and compare notes as to what had been done during the year. 
The organization voted to call themselves "The Provine Story and Play 
League of the Clinton Normal" this being complimentary to Dr. Provine 
of Miss, College, the Director of the Clinton Normal. The following 
officers were chosen. 

Miss Maude McKinstry, Blue Mountain, President. 

Mrs. Francis A. Murphy, Clinton, 1st Vice-President. 

Miss Ethel Shows, Moselle, 2d Vice-President. 

Miss Jennie Lewis, Clinton, Recording Secretary and Treasurer. 

Miss Alma Cook, Arkansas, Corresjponding Secretary. 

Mr. F. H. SuMRALL, Meridian; Miss Delia Dees, Osyka; Miss Mae 
Steele; Mr. Louis Cook, Arkansas, Executive Committee. 

Each member is to organize sections in her own town or community 
and report its work to the general league. Several subscriptions were 
taken for STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE, and a number of members 
promised to interest others in the Magazine when they went home. 

Mrs. Hardy is no longer at Blue Mountain, but Miss Mabel Terry 
now has charge of the Primary work in Blue Mountain College and still 
keeps up the Story Telling work with the Primary Dept. and Teacher's 
Training Class. Maude McKinstry, 

Blue Mountain, Miss. 



Three years ago I organized a Junior League in the Orphan's Home 
in Mishawaka, Indiana. 

It was known as "The Lincoln Story Telling Club" as it was organized 
on Lincoln's Birthday. The children elect officers once a year. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



The aim is to meet once in two weeks. The ])rogram is usually arranged 
by the children themselves, some six or eight of them telling stories. When 
I can meet with them I add two or three stories to their program. 

Their school teacher is very enthusiastic over the value of the story 
telling in her work with the children, so I am subscribing to the Magazine 
so that all the teachers of the Home may have the benefit of it. 

Helen G. Roth, 
Thorn Acres, Niles, Mich. 

Less than a year ago in the beautiful evergreen city of the west, Bloom- 
ington, Illinois, six young women with one aim, that of being more capable 
and able to carry out the development of the child life in Sunday School, 
decided to organize a Story Telling League, whereby stories could be 
told and an art developed — as it is an art to tell a story. The interests of 
these women were varied in every day life but one object was in view when 
they met to tell stories. 

Through the able assistance of Miss Frances Foote of Normal — a 
noted story teller, some splendid literature was obtained which proved very 
beneficial. Meetings are held twice each month at the home of some 
member. The membership is limited to twelve members — two members 
telling stories at each meeting. There are no dues and but two officers, 
a president and a secretary. 

This is the first Bloomington branch of the National Story Tellers' 
League. 

Mrs. C. p. Hanson, President. 
Mrs. Perry Johnson, Secretary. 



The Story Teller's League of Springfield, 111., was organized Aug., 1912. 
It has held regular meetings from Sept. to June on the first Friday of each 
month. In this first year no attempt at classification of stories has been 
made as we felt it best to allow members to choose their own stories. Now 
that more confidence has been gained, a group of stories with some central 
idea will be used for next year. Two talks on story telling were given by 
Miss Octavia Roberts and JVIiss Emma B. Grant. At the last meeting a 
number of children told stories. The audience was a very large one and 
the meeting was very enthusiastic. For next year we hope to bring to 
Springfield some professional story teller under the joint auspices of the 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Woman's Club, Schoolmistress' Club and Story Teller's League. Following 
are some of the stories used this past year: 

Robin Hood Selection — Pyle. An Old Game — Van Dyke. The 
Stone Cutter— i?/??? an. David and Saul — Browning. Hope Desire's 
Doll — Beckwith. Epaminondas — Bryant. Wandering Christ Child — 
Hofer. The Simple Old Man. Malinke's Atonement — Mary Anton. 
How THE Leopard Got His Spots — Kipling. The Land of the Blue 
Flower — Burnett. Pippa Passes — Browning. A Handful of Clay — 
Van Dyke. The Star Child — Oscar Wilde. Miss Clara Abel of the 
Lincoln Library gave a most helpful talk on "The Story Hour in the 
Library." 

Gladys Coffin, Secretary, 

Springfield, 111. 



The Little Rock Story Teller's League, which was organized four years 
ago by Supt. B. W. Torreyson, has as its aim, "To become efficient in the 
selection and telling of good stories; to become good listeners to good 
stories well told." Any person who is interested in story-telling may 
become a member upon application. The present membership consists of 
teachers in the public and private schools, city Supt., principals, Sunday- 
school teachers, and parents and friends in the city, who desire to know 
and give to the children the great stories of the world's best literature. 

At the beginning of the year a program — giving the subject of the 
stories and name of the leader for the day is made out by the Executive 
Committee. The leader is responsible for his or her meeting. All meetings 
are open to visitors. These meetings are held twice per month at the 
Carnegie Library. Members of the League have told stories at missionary 
meetings, Sunday-school social meetings, children hour at the Library, 
vesper service at the Y. W. C. A., and to the newsboys and street waifs. 

The most attentive listeners of all have been the newsboys and waifs — 
who sit almost motionless and eagerly drink in every word of the story. 
To Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Wilson is due the credit of giving to these boys the 
stories, since they invited members of the League to tell the stories on 
Sunday afternoon. In their work with these street w\aifs, they hope to 
accomplish much by means of the story. 

Eliza Hoskins, 

Morrelton, Arkansas. 
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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



MormaUTJlUnois, !!&rancl) of t^e 

National Stor^ Oellers TCeague 

^t tl)elflUrtoU State !!^ormal Kniversit^ 

On Dec 9, 1911, a group of Students met under the leadership of 
Miss Frances Foote, to organize a branch of the National Story-Tellers 
League. Continuously since that date this League has met once a week 
during the school year, regardless of wind or weather and much good has 
resulted from the organization. Inevitably the personnel of this League 
changes from term to term, since our students are constantly going out 
from us to teach, but in a way this strengthens our work, as those students 
who leave usually carry their enthusiasm into their work, while those who 
take their places bring fresh vigor into the League. 

-We plan our work so that it will be of practical value to the students 
in their school rooms, hence, seasonable stories, historic and patriotic 
stories, some of the Teutonic myths, and the old legends, seem best adapted 
to our needs. 

Theory and practice give the members confidence in their power and 
because of this fact many demands for story tellers to help out on pro- 
grams have been met, as this form of entertainment and instruction gro'vs 
more and more popular in Central Illinois. 

Through the impetus of our League, other Leagues have been 
formed, so that we feel that our work has already made itself felt. 

Forty years ago the Student Department of the Y. W. C. A. was 
organized in this Institution in the very room where our League first met. 
Have we not reason to hope that time will find our great work grown in 
like proportion? 

Frances Foote, President. 
I. S. N. U. 
Ada Krieder Sec'y. 
I. S. N. U. 

Note by the Editor : Miss Frances Foote is one of the most loyal and enthusiastic 
supporters of The Storytellers' Magazine and has probably been instrumental in sending 
us more subscribers than any other individual worker. 

191 



THE STORYTELLERS 



MAGAZINE 



Ceague (Tonferences 

T^ HREE conferences of the National Story Tellers' League and 
4^ local leagues were held during the Summer. The first was at 
Parkersburg, West Va., on June 21st, the day following the 
annual meeting of the West Virginia Educational Association. Our 
meeting was held on the lawn, under the shade of the great oaks in 
the city park, with an attendance of forty. The programme was 
informal, consisting of folk games, story telling and mapping out plans 
for the future. A State League was organized with Professor R. L. 
Cole, of Hinton, as President. The Beowulf League was represented 
by Professor J. H. Cox of the LTniversity. The next meeting will be 
held at Morgantown, next June, on the day before the annual meeting 
of the Educational Association. 

The second conference was held at Knoxville, Tennessee, at the 
University, July 19th, during the session of the Summer School of 
the South. We met on the spot where ten years ago, at a twilight 
meeting on the lawn, the National Story Tellers' League was organized. 
Interesting reports from delegates of local Leagues were made by Miss 
Eliza Hoskins of the Little Rock, Ark., League; Mrs. J. B. Lucas of 
Dalton, Georgia; Miss Mabel Lee Cooper of Memphis and Mrs 
Charles W. Bailey of Knoxville. Miss Jones of Nashville, Tenn., gave 
an interesting account of the Greek Pageant, "Fire Regained," 
given in Nashville, several afternoons in May. 

The third conference was held at Chautauqua, N. Y., in the Hall of 
Philosophy, August 16th. The conference elected the following 
officers: President R. T. Wyche, Vice-President Mabel C. Bragg, 
Treasurer and Secretary Adelaide Zazhert. 

Miss Josephine Leach gave an account of the interesting twilight 
meetings held at the Summer School of Miami LTniversity, Oxford, 
Ohio, and also reported for the Chicago Story Tellers' League of 
which she is a member. Miss Anna Loughery represented the Phil- 
adelphia League and gave interesting reports of their work, as did Mrs. 
Rowen, a delegate from the Detroit, Michigan, League. Resolutions 
were passed at this and the Knoxville conference, endorsing The 
Storytellers' Magazine as the official organ of The National 
Story Tellers' League and local Leagues. 

192 



jFrom tl)e Cdlbr's 5tu6^ 



V^^HAT stories to tell is a fundamental and far-reaching 
^^y/ question. When we look at the world's literature we 
can tell only a small fraction of the best stories, to say 
nothing of others. By what standard shall we measure the 
worth of a story? In order to answer this question we must 
study human life and the literature of the world. 

Frederick Harrison, the English author, in his book on 
"What to Read," says that in the literary world as in the nat- 
ural world, there are suns. If we have the light of the sun we 
have the reflected light of moon and star. There are thousands 
of lesser books that are reflections of some great book. Those 
who have devoted their lives to literature should be able to 
give us some light on this question. 

The great old story books of Europe that nurtured our 
ancestors before they came to America are still ours. From 
northern Europe in the story of Siegfried and its variants; 
from southern Europe in the Homeric story; from western 
Europe in the story of King Arthur; and from Western Asia 
in the Bible have come four great streams of culture. Each 
one is national and epic in its scope, coming out of the heart 
of the race, revealing its loftiest ideals and aspirations and 
making a universal appeal. They have been woven into the 
fabric of our life — art, music, literature, religion and civics 
thru all the centuries, and when we study and re-tell these 
stories their lofty spirits reverberate thru ours, giving us re- 
newed life. While our teachers of literature agree as to the 
great importance of these and other great books belonging to 
this class, they in no sense underestimate many other stories 
that are classics and that came from other sources and nation- 
alities. 

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But literature exists for man — not man for literature, and in 
the last analysis the stories that contribute most to making 
ideal men and women are the stories to emphasize, regardless 
of their source or authorship. Literature must give ideals, 
vision, life, and such literature may come with local color from 
life to-day. If the study of the literature of the past does not 
help one to better appreciate the literature of to-day, it is a 
failure. 

In planning a program of stories to tell during the winter 
we should include the lighter stories of to-day even to the 
anecdote, but unless we take up some of the great literature 
of the past that requires study, our work will be lacking in 
background and perspective. It is true in storytelling as in 
other fields, we cannot get something for nothing. 



The illustrations used in this number of the Magazine are mainly re- 
productions selected from the great masterpieces of the world. 

The StoRYTELLERs' MAGAZINE believe that such pictures are really 
more decorative and have an educational value beyond the average illus- 
tration drawn or selected at random. 



The Storytellers' Magazine invites opinions as to the advisability of 
holding a Storytellers' Congress, at some desirable and convenient locality 
during the summer of 1914. 



If the Storytellers' Magazine should establish a "Suggestion Box" — 
that is, a department to which should be forwarded suggestions whereby 
the Magazine could be improved and made more useful and helpful to the 
storytelling cause, would the readers of the Magazine take advantage of 
it, do you think? 

The stories in this number of the Magazine have encroached somewhat 
upon the space usually given to the Storytellers' Leagues, Bibliography and 
Book Reviews, but the banishment of these useful departments is only 
temporary. 

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Are you in a good humor this morning? Because, if you are, the 
Business Manager would like to have a little chat with you about the 
best way to bring up and develop a young, healthy magazine. 

Suppose we begin by asking whether you think 100,000 persons could 
readily be found who would take enough interest to invest one dollar in 
the young Storytellers' career? One hundred thousand at first blush 
sounds like a large order, but then you must remember this is also a large 
country. Taking your own neighborhood, for instance, can you suggest 
a good working plan for getting 500 subscribers — say within the next 
three months? One hundred agents each turning in 500 subscribers or 
five hundred agents each turning in 100 subscribers — means 50,000 sub- 
scribers — one-half of the total number at once, j^ou see! 

Are you willing to help along the young Storytellers' growth by sending 
the Business Manager the name and address of a live, active agent in 
your neighborhood who would likely accept an agency and help the good 
work along? 

If you were making up a list of premiums to offer in connection with a 
subscription to the Magazine, what useful or ornamental article, book 
or periodical would you put at the head of your list — in other words, what 
particular combination in your estimation would win the greatest number 
of subscribers? 

The Business Manager, you observe, is determined to put you to work. 
He wants to make you share some of his responsibilities. That is his way 
of testing your loyalty to the Storytelling cause. 

Now, the great question is, are you going to nominate yourself a com- 
mittee of one to do some real work, or are you going to shift the burden of 
responsibility on somebody else's shoulders? 

If you could stand at the Business Manager's elbow when the morning's 
mail is opened, you would feel encouraged to "lend a hand." The Story- 
tellers' Magazine already has Success written across its face in large 
characters. Every mail brings letters of encouragement and offers to help. 
For instance, here is an interesting and discriminating letter which this 
morning's mail brought us from across the sea: 

The Rectory, Kinnitty, King's Co., Ireland, 

August 15, 1913. 

"Thank you very much for the magazine which I got yesterday. It is beautifully got 

up, is well adapted as an educative medium for young people. In fact, old people, too, would 

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enjoy it. The short article on "Image in Story TelHng" is very well expressed. We must make 
the children "see" things as well as "hear" them, not only on the blackboard, but also in their 
reading books. 

I like the invocation on page 105 very much. The language is very pure and the rhythm 
good. There is a very true remark on page 104 — "To have normal feelings is more important 
than abnormal knowledge," and therefore I think all educational schemes and methods should 
be directed to the evolution of the average rather than of the brilliant pupils — who are much 
fewer in numbers. The mistake made in English and Irish schools is to neglect the average 
boy and push on the brilliant one, in order that his scholarship, etc., in college may bring honour 
to the teaching staff. The brilliant pupil will forge ahead himself, with little assistance. 

You could not have better stories, as regards raising and elevating tendency, than the im- 
mortal Arthurian cycle. The stories of St. Christopher, etc., and the account of Beethoven's 
Moonlight Sonata are informing and interesting. The illustrations and letterpress are excellent. 
It is a wonderful magazine for ten cents. 

Montgomery Hitchcock. 

The Sunday School interests, the Playground interests, the Library 
interests, the Camp Fire interests, the Educational interests, the Sum- 
mer School interests, the Kindergarten, Mothercraft and Teachers' Insti- 
tutes are all holding out their hands and bidding the Storytellers' Mag- 
azine Godspeed, because they believe in its mission and are in sympathy 
with its ideals. 

Through the active co-operation of all its wellwishers, the Magazine 
can be made one of the great periodicals with not only one, but several 
hundred thousand subscribers. To accomplish this, however, the Business 
Manager needs your assistance, your advice, your hints and suggestions and 
he asks you to begin NOW 

"Well," you say, "the Business Manager's little chat is, after all, merely 
the same old story of 'keeping everlastingly at it.'" 

That is the whole situation in a nutshell. To make a great magazine 
everybody must help. Shall we not, then, all of us, put our shoulders to 
the wheel and try to make the Storytellers' Magazine the "greatest 
ever." 

Remember, we make it icorih your while to work for The Storytellers' 
Magazine. 

THE BUSINESS MANAGER, 
27 West 23d Street, New York. 



196 



Octob 



er 



In the hush and the lonely silence 

Of the chill October night 
Some wizard has worked his magic 

With airy fingers light. 
The leaves of the sturdy oak trees 

Are splendid with crimson and red, 
And the golden flags of the maple 

Are fluttering overhead. 

— Angelina Wray. 



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VOLUME 1 OCTOBER, IdV.] NUMBER 4 



Ol)e Cittle ^tlou5c fia 

(Tbautauqua, 1913 

^^^RS, GRAY was a nice old mother cat that lived in the shed 
^ii in the back yard. She had four kittens — two yellow ones 
called Mustard and Custard, a little black one named Donder, 
and a little white one that she called Whitey. 

One morning she called the kittens to breakfast: " Come Mustard 
and Custard! Come Donder! Come Whitey! Breakfast is ready!" 

Mustard and Custard put their paws up on the edge of the box 
and fell over thump on the floor, while Donder came tumbling after. 
Then they ran as fast as they could run across the floor to where the 
saucer of milk was waiting. Sometimes their hind legs ran faster 
than their front legs and made them turn around backwards and 
sometimes their tails were crooked and made them run sideways. 
They began to lap the milk so hard and so fast that the milk got into 
their eyes and made them wink, and into their noses and made them 
sneeze. Mrs. Gray had to give them lessons in table manners and 
then they did better. Their mother noticed that Whitey was not there. 

"Why, children, where is Whitey .f* Why didn't he come.f^" 

The three kittens all answered together: " Whitey 's cross!" 
"Whitey's sick!" " Whitey 's lazy!" 

Mrs. Gray ran over to the box as fast as she could go. There 
was Whitey lying on his side with his eyes half shut. 

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"Whitey, what is the matter with you? Why didn't you come 
to your breakfast?" 

"I couldn't come to my breakfast," said Whitey, "because I'm 
so sick! My nose is hot, my tail is cold and my head aches." 

Mrs. Gray ran as fast as she could and got four little cups of hot 
water and stood Whitey up with a paw in each one. Then she put 
cracked ice on his head and a mustard plaster on his back. 

"There now, Whitey," she asked anxiously, "don't you feel 
better?" 

But poor little Whitey cried, "No, I don't feel any better. I 
feel worse!" 

Of course it was time then to have a doctor. Mrs. Gray ran 
around into the next yard where Mrs. Brown lived, and asked her to 
send her son Tom for the doctor. 

Mrs. Brown sent Tom for the Doctor and went home with Mrs. 
Gray to help her take care of Whitey. They sat down, one on each 
side of that box, and watched Whitey for one hour and twenty minutes 
without winking and that kept him from going into fits. 

Just then in came a large tortoiseshell cat. He took off his hat 
and his gloves and put these with his cane down on a pile of kindling 
wood near by. Then he walked over to Whitey. He felt of Whitey's 
pulse, and looked at Whitey's tongue and then he thought for four 
minutes, after which he announced solemnly, 

"I think Whitey is threatened." 

Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Brown looked at each other with tears in 
their eyes, but the Doctor went right on to say that if Whitey could 
have a little mouse pie inside of two hours, he would live. The pie 
must be made out of mice not more than six weeks old and fresh, 
not pickled. 

Mrs. Gray tied on her bonnet, took her parasol and a small tin 
pail and went to the grocery store. There she found eight mice just 
six weeks old and fresh, not pickled. 

She hurried home as fast as she could go and without stopping to 
take off her bonnet she tied on a large gingham apron and made up a 
fire in the kitchen stove. She took the big yellow mixing bowl and 
mixed the pie-crust. She rolled out the under crust and put it on the 
plate and trimmed off the edges. 

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Then she took up. the mice one at a time by the tails and hiid 
them down side, by side carefully tucking the tails in. She sprinkled 
over them a little salt, a little pepper and a little mustard and a little 
nutmeg, three drops of lemon juice and five drops of vanilla. She put 
some dabs of butter around in a circle, filled the space up with cream 
sprinkled powdered catnip all over the top of the pie and put on the 
top crust. She knew exactly how to make a little mouse pie. 

Then she put it in the oven to bake and sat down in the rocking 
chair and rocked very hard until it was done. In twenty minutes she 
took it out of the oven and put it on the window sill to cool. Donder 
and Mustard and Custard were outside and when they smelled it they 
looked at each other and said, 

"Oh my, I wish I could have some little mouse pie!" 

Mrs. Gray scolded them, "You greedy little things, you. Run 
away! That pie is for your little sick brother, Whitey." 

When the pie was cool enough Mrs. Gray took it in her hand and 
, walked over to Whitey. She held it down close to him so that he 
could smell it. 

"Don't vou think vou could eat some of this little mouse pie, 
Whitey?" 

But Whitey answered sadly, "No, I'm too sick." 

She put a few crumbs of the crust on his tongue. Whitey sat up 
very straight immediately and said, 

"Gim' me some more." 

Then Mrs. Gray knew that Whitey 's life was saved. Whitey ate 
every bit of that pie, and when he had finished he licked the plate. 
Then he ran out to play with the other children. 

When Mrs. Gray saw him go she said, "Bless the child," and the 
next day when the Doctor sent his bill for fifty dollars, Mrs. Gray gave 
him one hundred dollars and thanked him too! 

Adapted from "The Little Mouse Pie" by Rebecca Palfuay Utter. 
Published in "The Christian Register," July 19, 1906. 



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(Tall^ (Too-CToo o* tl)e ^0065 

^^ Seutnas Mlac^anu5 

Author of " In Chimney Corners," "A Lud of the O'Friels," etc. 

ONCE upon a time there were a King and a Queen of Connaught 
who had three handsome daughters. They had also a Wishing- 
Chair, which every time you sat in, could get you anything you 
wished for. But they kept the Wishing-Chair locked in a rooml 
where the daughters never got at it. 

It came round that the King of Ulster once gave a great feast, to 
which the King and Queen of Connaught went. And while they were 
gone, the daughters having all the keys, said it would be great fun to 
go and see the Wishing-Chair. 

And when they opened the Wishing-Chair room, and beheld the 
Wishing-Chair they said it would be great fun to sit and wish in it. 

No sooner said than done. Down in the Ch^ir sat the eldest 
daughter, and wished she had the richest man in the world. Down 
after her sat the second daughter, and wished she had the handsomest 
man in the world. And then sat down the third and youngest, Maeve, 
who was fond of going into the woods and calling *'Cally Coo-Coo!" 
between her hands to hear the Echo from far away answer "Cally 
Coo-Coo!" — and wished that she had Cally Coo-Coo o' the woods. 

All at once the handsomest man in the world was with them, and 
the richest man in the world, and Cally Coo-Coo o' the Woods, who 
came in the shape of a bull, and they were all married before night, 
and each Princess went away with her husband. 

Cally Coo-Coo took Maeve away into the depths of the woods, 
where, under a waterfall, he made a house for her from branches of trees. 

Then he disclosed to her that he who had always answered her 
when she called, and whom people thought was the Echo was really 
the Prince of the East; that he had been enchanted by a witch a long 
time ago, but the time of his enchant/ment was now nearly over. He 
was condemned to be a bull half the time, and he let her choose whether 
she would have him a bull by night and a man by day; and Maeve 
chose that he should be a man by night and a bull by day. 

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*Potter, Bull, Hague. 



(ALLY (DO CAMK IN TllK SHAPE OF A BULL"* 



[Courtesy !'■ 



After a year a young son was born. Cally Coo-Coo had told her 
that as soon as the child was born, it would be carried off; and had 
warned her on the peril of her life not to lose a tear over it. 

And sure enough, as soon as the child was born it disappeared 
and sorry, sorry was Maeve, but, remembering Cally Coo-Coo's 
warning, she did not drop one tear. ^ 

At the end of the second year, a little girl was born. Cally Coo- 
Coo likewise warned her this time, but she was so sorely grieved this 
time that she lost control of herself, and dropped one tear. However, 
she caught this tear in her handkerchief, and rolled it up and laid it 
in her breast. 

Cally Coo-Coo's time of enchantment was now nearly ended, and 
her father and mother, the King and Queen of Connaught, invited 
Maeve and her sisters, with their husbands to come to a great feast 
of Forgiveness, as the Queen was pining to see her daughters again, and 
to know their husbands. 

On the day that was appointed, they all arrived at their father's 



THE STORYTELLERS 



MAGAZINE 



castle — Cally Coo-Coo coming in the shape of a bull, with Maeve. 
Her two sisters, and her two sisters' husbands made sport of the hus- 
band that Maeve had got, and her mother was greatly grieved over it. 

At night Cally Coo-Coo, of course, always cast his hide and took 
the shape of a man. After they had all retired, the Queen wanted to 
look on her daughters and their husbands in their sleep. When she 
came to Maeve's room she saw the bull's hide and horns lying on the 
floor, and Cally Coo-Coo asleep in bed, the handsomest young man she 
had ever beheld. 

"What a pity," she said, "that such a handsome young man 
should wear that nasty bull's hide!" So she gathered it up with her 
and put it into the big hall fire to burn up. 

The moment the hide began burning, Cally Coo-Coo, with a 
frightful scream, jumped up in his bed. 

All came flocking to his room, inquiring what was the matter. 

He asked who had put his bull's hide into the fire. 
The Queen said she had done it; because as he was such a beautiful 
young man, it was a pity for him to wear that thing. 

Then said he, "You have ruined me! I have been under enchant- 
ment, and in three days more the spells would have ended, and I have 
been a free man, and happy with my Maeve here all my life. But now 
I must undergo worse witchery still, and fly to my own country again." 

At that instant into a black crow he was turned, and flew out of 
the window. 

Up jumped Maeve, and away after piteously crying and calling 
on him to wait. But wait or pause the crow could not, but flew on and 
on, while on and on Maeve followed, keeping as close as she could 
behind him. When he was on the hilltop she was in the hollow, and 
when she had reached the hilltop, he was in the hollow. 

In that way she followed him all the night and all the next day 
and when the next night fell, he perched for the first time on a tree, and 
she came and threw herself down beneath it. 

Cally Coo-Coo said: "Get up and go forward, Maeve, and you'll 
meet a house where you will stop for the night." 

She got up and went forward, and did not travel far till she saw 
a light, and found a little house, which she entered. There was one 
woman in the house, and also a little boy who played Caman on the 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 




•'THE KING ONCE MADE A GREAT FEAST"* 
*HaIs, Banquet of Guard, Haarlem, 



[Courtesy Braun et Cie.] 



floor with a silver caman and a golden nag. All at once Maeve was 
struck by his resemblance to Cally Coo-Coo. 

She asked to be allowed to stop for the night. 

The woman welcomed her, — gave her a good supper, and a soft 
bed, and a deep, tired sleep she slept. 

She told the woman her story before she left the house in the 
morning, and the woman said she would like to make her a present, 
which would yet be useful to her. She gave Maeve a needle, one 
stitch with which would turn any cloth into most beautiful silk, spark- 
ling with showers of gold and silver. She said, "It is the Needle of 
Beauty." 

She took the Needle of Beauty, thanked the woman very heartily, 
kissed the child who was so very like Cally Coo-Coo, — and set out. 

She found the crow ready to set off, and she followed it faithfully 
this day again. When the crow was on the hill, Maeve was in the 
hollow, and when Maeve had reached the hill the crow was in the 
hollow. 

At night he perched in a tree, and she came and laid down beneath 
it. 

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THE STORYTELLERS 



MAGAZINE 



He told her to go on until she reached a house where she would 
stop for the night. 

She did not go far till she saw a light, and drew on it, and found a 
little house. 

Going in, she found one woman there, and a very little baby girl, 
who was amusing herself rolling a golden clue off a silver reel. And she 
was instantly struck with the wonderful resemblance of this child to 
herself. The child, however, had lost one eye. 

The woman of the house welcomed her, and gave her a hearty 
supper, and a soft bed, where she slept a deep, tired sleep. 

In the morning she told the woman her story. And before she 
left, the woman presented her with a towel, one rub of which over any 
woman's face, no matter how ugly she had been, would immediately 
make of her a most beautiful damsel. She said, "It is the Towel of 
Loveliness. It will yet be useful to you." 

Maeve took the towel and thanked her. 

Said the woman: 'T have one request to ask of you." 

"What is that.?" asked Maeve. 

"Give me that which lies next your heart." 

Maeve took from her breast the handkerchief in which was rolled 
the tear she let drop at the loss of her baby-girl, and gave it to the 
woman. 

The woman shook this on the little child's head, and instantly 
it got its lost eye back again. 

Maeve thanked the woman, and kissed the child, and set out 
to follow the crow again. And when she was in the hollow the crow 
was on the hill, and when she was on the hill, the crow was in the 
hollow. 

At night he perched on a tree, and directed her to go forward to 
a house. 

This house she soon reached, and found in it only a woman who 
made her heartily welcome, and gave her a good supper, and a soft 
bed — where she slept a deep tired sleep. 

In the morning she told her story to this woman. And the 
woman pitied her, and gave her a comb, saying, "Any hair that is 
combed with this comb, will hang with pearls and jewels. It is called 
the Comb of Plenty. Keep it, for it will yet be useful to you." 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Maeve thanked her very heartily, and set out. She followed the 
crow once more: and, when she was on the hill, he was in the hollow, 
and when she was in the hollow, he was on the hill. 

But in the evening they reached a great hill, the one side of which 
was bristling thick with harrow-pins, and the other side with glass. 
And over this hill flew the crow. 

Maeve tried to climb the Hill of Harrow-pins; but they rent her 
and tore her, and pierced through her feet, until at last all torn and 
worn, she threw herself at the bottom, and began to cry in despair. 

The Blacksmith of the Hill of Harrow-pins found her in this woeful 
state, and his wife bathed her, and dressed her, and cured her wounds. 
Then he bargained that if she would serve seven years apprenticeship 
with him, he would shoe her so that she could walk up the Hill of 
Harrow-pins and down the Hill of Glass, and follow Cally Coo-Coo. 

She agreed to this, served seven years to the Blacksmith of the 
Hill of Harrow-pins, and at the end of that time he shod her, so that 
she- climbed the Hill of Harrow-pins and went down the Hill of Glass, 
safe and unhurt. Away and away before her she then travelled, over 
hill, height, and hollow, moor, mountain, and scrug, lone valley and 
green glen, until at long and last one day, she reached a river which 
flowed by a beautiful castle. And at this river there was gathered a 
crowd of women, each of them in turn trying to wash a shirt. She 
asked the women what this meant, and they told her that the Prince 
of the East, who lived in that beautiful castle, had been a long time 
under enchantment far away; but had returned home seven years ago, 
a most beautiful young man. Since then his people had tried to make 
him marry; but he said he was married to a beautiful Princess in 
Ireland, who was on her way after him. 

But after they had waited seven years for their new Queen to 
come, his people lost their patience, and said she must be dead or un- 
faithful and would never come, and that he must marry. He said she 
might be dead, but not unfaithful. And when he could hold out against 
his people no longer, he had given out that whatever young woman 
would wash three blood-stains from this shirt which was now in the 
river, should be his wife. But they said they must be enchanted 
blood-stains, for every woman there had tried and none could wash 
them out. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"Let me try," said Maeve. And taking the shirt in her hands 
with one rub she washed away the blood-stains. 

Then a coarse, big girl named Eiver, who was there, struck her 
and stunned her, and knocked Maeve down: took the shirt and ran 
with it to the castle, saying she had washed out the blood-stains. 

Now a good Henwife by the castle had assured the Prince that 
no woman but his true wife could wash out these magic blood-stains, 
which had come on his shirt the night his bull's hide was burnt. So, 
when this coarse girl appeared, and showed the spots washed out, and 
claimed the Prince, he was seized with a great sickness, and had to be 
carried to his bed. This girl, Eiver, insisted upon her right to nurse 
him, and was by his bed both day and night. 

When Maeve recovered, the Henwife took her home to her cot- 
tage, and kept her there. 

After a little while the Prince began to get well, and it was an- 
nounced that in three days more he would be married to Eiver, in 
accordance with his promise. 

There was a slovenly and ill-cared for scullion from the castle 
whom Eiver sent to the Henwife for some eggs. To her Maeve said, 
"Will you let me comb your hair for you.^*" 

And she combed the scullion's tattery head with her Comb of 
plenty, and the scullion returned to the Castle with hair the most 
beautiful that had ever been seen, and the ends of it hanging with 
pearls and jewels. Eiver sent the scullion back to the Henwife's to 
ask what Maeve would take for the Comb. 

Maeve said, "She can have the comb, if she lets me nurse the 
Prince to-night." 

This was agreed to, and the Comb of Plenty given to Eiver. But 
before she gave the Prince in charge to Maeve, Eiver gave him sleeping- 
drops, and turned his face to the wall. 

All that night, Maeve, as she sat by his side and held his hand, 
sang to him, "Far thou hast brought me, far have I sought thee, two 
bonny children borne unto thee; and seven sore years to the Blacksmith 
served; I climbed up the Hill of Harrow-pins, and down the Hill of 
Glass, and three drops of red blood washed from thy shirt. Won't 
my bonny, bonny husband turn unto me?" But from the deep-sleep- 
ing Prince, Maeve did not get one word until she left in the morning. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Next day, when the sculhon came to the Henwife's for eggs, her 
dress was all wretched and ragged and bad. 

Maeve said, "Let me fix your dress for you." And taking her 
Needle of Beauty, Maeve put one stitch in the dress — and immediately 
on the scullion was one of the most beautiful silk dresses, sparkling 
with gold and silver spangles, that had ever been seen. And when the 
scullion had returned to the castle, Eiver sent her to enquire what 
Maeve would take for the Needle of Beauty. 

Maeve said, "permission to nurse the Prince one night." 

This was agreed to. But as on the night before, Eiver gave the 
prince sleeping-drops, and turned his face to the wall, before Maeve 
got charge of him. And all that night Maeve held his hand and sang 
to him, "Far hast thou brought me, far have I sought thee; two bonny 
children borne unto thee; and seven sore years to the Blacksmith served. 
I climbed up the Hill of Harrow-pins, and down the Hill of Glass; and 
three drops of red blood washed from thy shirt: Won't my bonny, 
bonny husband turn unto me.^^" But not one word did she get from the 
Prince until the day broke, and she left. 

On the next day, which was the Prince's wedding eve, the scullion 
was at the Henwife's again. She was a very, very ugly girl with a 
very dirty face. 

Maeve said, "Let me wash j'our face for you." And with one rub 
of the Towel of Loveliness on the scullion's face, she left her the most 
beautiful girl that had ever been seen. When the scullion returned to 
the castle, Eiver sent her again to the Henwife's to ask what Maeve 
would take for the Towel of Loveliness. 

Maeve said, "One night to nurse the Prince," which was agreed to. 

Now, the Prince had a faithful servant who always slept in the 
next room. And this servant had been kept awake the first night by 
Maeve's singing all the night long to the sleeping Prince. On the second 
night he had listened closely and heard some of the words, and on this 
next day told the Prince about it, and asked him what it meant. 

The Prince was all astonished. He told him to say nothing more 
to anyone until he would see. The prince recollected that on the two 
nights past Eiver had made him take a drink before she left him. On 
this night when Eiver offered him a drink before she left him, he 
pretended to take it, but really spilled it atween the bed and the wall. 

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And lie then let on to go to sleep, with his face turned to the wall as 
usual. When Maeve came in she sat down by his bedside as on the 
other nights, took hold of one of his hands, kissed it, and wept on it, 
and sang to him; "Far hast thou brought me, far have I sought thee; 
two bonny children borne unto thee, and seven sore years to the Black- 
smith served. I climbed up the Hill of Harrowpins, and down the Hill 
of Glass, and three drops of red blood washed from thy shirt. Won't 
my bonny, bonny husband turn unto me.'^" 

As soon as she had finished, the Prince sat up and clasped her in 
his arms. He had the whole castle roused at once. Eiver was called 
before him, and had to confess her falseness. She gave up the Needle 
of Beauty, the Towel of Loveliness, and the Comb of Plenty, and was 
banished from the country for ever. 

The preparations which were being made for the prince's wedding 
next day, were hurried now on a far greater scale — for his rewedding 
to Maeve. Invitations were sent east and west, north and south to all 
the Princes and lords and ladies, nobles and knights of the land. 

To the wedding came three strange women, who brought with 
them two very handsome little children, a boy and a girl. They were 
the three women who had housed and harbored Maeve and the children 
were Maeve's own handsome boy and girl, both of which they 
handed over to their delighted mother. 

A happier woman than Maeve was not that day in all the world, 
nor a happier man than the prince of the East; nor a happier pair than 
they ever lived before or since. 

C3l)e !^lacK Oower or tl)e Silver 

3fou5e 



3OHN was sitting all curled up on the nursery couch. He had 
been playing bear with Helen, until mother came along and 
marched Helen off to practice. Over in the corner John could see his 
splendid new train that he had gotten for Christmas. When it was all 

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hitched together the engine and the two passenger cars and the baggage 
car, it was 'most as long as your arm ! The very best part of it John 
thought were the engineer and the fireman and the conductor. They 
were about as tall as your little finger. Just now the conductor was 
sitting on the roof of one of the passenger cars smiling. He was a very 
cheerful conductor; he was always smiling. 

While John looked at him that conductor actually jumped down 
off the roof of that car and began to walk slowly over toward John! 
John was so surprised and pleased that he hardly dared draw a long 
breath. When the conductor got nearer, John saw that he carried a 
big green package that seemed too heavy for him. He would often 
set it down and rest a minute. He came on nearer and nearer and he 
actually walked right up John's arm until he got to his elbow, then he 
laid down his green bundle and took off his cap and said pleasantly: 
"Would you like a ride in the cars.^^" 

*T should say I would," gasped John, too surprised to be very 
polite. 

"Well," said the conductor, picking up the green bundle and 
walking on up towards John's mouth, "Eat this." 

What do you suppose that green bundle was.f^ A lime-juice drop. 
John ate it and then he felt himself growing smaller until he was 
only about half as tall as the conductor ! They went over and got on the 
train and it started instantly. 

John must have gone to sleep on the train as people often do, for 
the next thing he remembered was hearing the conductor shout 
"Bear Station — all out." The conductor came smiling up to him and 
said: "Come, the bears are waiting for you at the station." There, 
sure enough, on the platform were two great big brown bears. 

" Good morning, John," said the biggest one, " I am Mr. Theodore 
Bear and this is Mrs. Bear. We are your Teddy Bear's mother and 
father." Without giving him time to answer, they each took hold 
of a hand and away they all flew over the ground. 

At last they reached the woods. It was a very old woods and the 
trees in it were very big. The bears led John right up to one of the 
biggest of these trees. Mr. Bear knocked politely three times and the 
queerest little door opened in the trunk of the tree. John hadn't 
noticed there was a door there till it opened. Mrs. Bear stepped in and 

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'Forest Edge, Diaz. 



"IT WAS A VERY OLD WOODS"* 



[Ccurlesy Braun et Cie.] 



John and Mr. Bear followed. They found themselves in the prettiest 
little fairy garden lighted with green lights. In the distance John 
saw a big black tower and not far from it a beautiful little silver house. 

"We bring all children here," said Mr. Bear. "Every one who 
has a Teddy Bear of his own. We either give them to the old witch 
on the tower to punish or take them to the Silver Fairy to reward." 
John felt that his hair must be standing on ends. He wasn't really a 
coward, but he couldn't help wondering whom he would be given to. 

"How — er — how do you decide, Mr. Bear, which to do.^^" 

"Come and stand near the tower and perhaps you can guess," 
replied the bear. 

When they got near the tower they heard a gruff voice saying: 
"First, you left him out in the rain all night. Second, you took the 
scissors and cut off his hair. Third, you carried him all the way down 
by one foot. You will be left out in the rain all night. You will have 
all your hair cut off. You will be dragged seven times around this 
tower by one foot." 

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"Now," said the bear, "come here and listen near the Silver 
House. A sweet voice was saying: "You have always been good to 
him, you have always treated him kindly, you have always taken 
good care of him. Come sit here and eat and listen while I play." 

"You have guessed by this time," said the bear, "that children 
who treat their bears badly go to the tower and those who treat them 
well, come in here." As he finished saying this he took John's hand and 
led him into the Silver House. The most beautiful fairy John had 
ever seen was sitting on a silver throne. She bent over and kissed 
John and said, "Because you love your bear so much you shall sit 
at my table and eat with me." John climbed up on the throne 
beside her and flying fairies brought them sweets and goodies on 
silver plates. After they had eaten, the fairy took a magic fiddle 
and began to play. As she played she began to fade away and the 
room in the fairy house grew misty and suddenly John found himself 
on the grass in the woods at the foot of the tree with the queer 
door." No bears were to be seen, but in the distance John saw the 
conductor coming running just as hard as ever he could. 

When he reached John he grabbed him and pulled him after him 
so they both ran just as hard as they could. 

"What are we running so for.^*" John managed to gasp out after 
awhile. 

"Why to catch the train, of course," replied the conductor, 
puffing away like an engine, "don't people always run after trains.'^" 

When they got to the station the conductor hustled John in and 
jumped in after him and away went the train — it must have been 
waiting for them. 

Soon the conductor came through the car and called out: "All 
tickets please." John was just about to say he hadn't any, when he 
saw that the other passengers were giving the conductor lime-juice 
drops, instead of the usual kind of tickets and the conductor was 
eating them just as fast as he could take them up. John put his hand 
in his pocket and found it was full of lime-juice drops. He took one 
and was just going to hand it to the conductor when something went 
B — A — N — G — and John found himself in the back nursery. There 
was the conductor sitting on top the passenger coach looking just as 
if nothing had happened. 

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III. 



Ol)e Slor^ of IKlng Arthur 

{In Twelve Numbers) 

How Arthur Won His Sword "Excalibur," 
His Bride and His Round Table 



C5' 



^HE commoners had indeed shouted joyfully, "Long live the 
King!" and many of the nobles also had been glad to see the 
end of the long struggle for the crown; but there were others, strong 
and mighty warriors, who were not yet willing to submit to the rule 
of a "beardless boy." The first year of Arthur's reign, therefore, was 
a turbulent one; for, between the rebellion of his own subjects on the 
one hand, and the raids of the Saxons on the other, he scarcely knew 
what it was to lay aside his armor for so much as a single day. 

Gradually, however, the young King's bravery and nobility of 
character began to call forth the respect of those who were watching 
his career, so that one by one the knights of his realm, conquered 
either by force of arms or better still by admiration, came to pay him 
homage; and very soon even those robber barons found themselves 
being transformed under the chivalric influences that prevailed at 
' that court. 

Soon after his coronation Arthur appointed his officers. At the 
request of the good Sir Ector, whom the young King would alwaj^s 
regard as a father, he appointed his foster brother, Sir Kay, seneschal 
of all Britain. Then he remembered old friends of his real father, 
Uther Pendragon, and made Sir Baldwin constable. Sir Ulfius chamber- 
lain, and Sir Brastias warden of the country north of the River Trent. 

This done, he fought twelve great battles to bring into subjection 
the tributary kings who still held out against him. Then he felt that 
his realm was in about as good order as he could well expect it to be 
in those wild and lawless times. 

In all these battles the sword that he had drawn from the anvil 

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served him well, but strange to 
say one day when lie was jousting 
with a single knight the hitter's 
stronger weapon cut Arthur's 
sword in two leaving the young 
King defenseless, so that he was 
severely wounded and would 
probably have been killed had it 
not been for Merlin, who bore him 
away to a hermitage where he lay 
ill for three days. During that 
time, however, it was not so 
much by his suffering that he was 
troubled as by the discovery of 
the loss of his sword; but when 
he made his anxiety known to 
Merlin, the Wise Man merely 
smiled one of those mysterious 
smiles of his and said: 

"That, Sir King, is perhaps 
the best thing that ever happened 
to you. As soon as you are strong 
enough to wield it you. shall have 
a far better weapon I promise 

you." 

By the, third day, therefore, 
no entreaties could prevail upon 
him to remain under the care of 
the kindly hermit any longer. 

"I must be up and away to 

find that sword," said he. So 

Merlin answered: "Very well. 

Follow me." 

Then off they rode, up hill and down dale through a strange and 

wonderful country, until at last they came to the shores of a broad 

and beautiful lake over which a fairy veil of light morning mist was 

still hanging. They drew rein in silence and watched the sun gradually 

215 




♦The Knight, Corot, 



-lit !;('Tor!"' 

[Courtesy Braun el Cie] 



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rise from behind the distant hill tops. Presently, under the gentle 
warmth, the mist began to lift, so that very soon the waters lay before 
them, clear as crystal and shimmering in the glorious morning light. 
Then a strange thing happened. Up from the bosom of the lake rose 
an arm clothed in white samite in whose hand was clasped a sword 
and scabbard, and the hilt of that sword was ten times more beautiful 
and twinkled with far richer jewels than the weapon whose loss 
Arthur was mourning. 

"How I wish it were mine," he whispered to Merlin tremulously. 

"Hush," was the only reply, "Look toward the other side of the 
lake." Arthur obeyed, and saw gliding toward them what at first 
appeared to be a column of white mist not yet dispelled by the sun's 
rays, but which gradually resolved itself into the form of a beautiful 
maiden whose feet skimmed the waves as lightly as if they had been 
the floating petals of a pond lily. 

"That," Merlin whispered, "is the Lady of the Lake. When she 
comes near ask her for the sword, 
for it is hers and belongs to 
her wonderful palace under the 
water." 

Arthur then leaped from his 
horse, and stepping to the very 
brink of the waves bowed low, 
saying: 

"Fair Damsel, you see be- 
fore you a knight who has been 
so unfortunate as to lose his 
sword. If you will give me 
yours I will promise you to do 
all in my power to make this 
land so safe that no maiden will 
ever after need to own a weapon, 
for there will be enough brave 
and chivalrous knights to fight 
the battles of all the weak and 

tViP r^r.r»rP<!«pH " "^"^ ^"^^ RESOLVED ITSELF INTO A 

Liic uppicsocLi. BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY"* 

"You may have the sword, *Beata Beatrix, RosetU, Tate. [Courtesy BraunetCU.] 

216 



JH 


^^B^^^^^^M 






' *W^ ' 


f^^ 


"'■''% 


^^ 



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King Arthur," replied the Lady, "to do with as you have promised. 
Take the barge that you will find hidden in yonder rushes, and row 
out to claim it. It is yours to use for many years to come." 

Having said this the form of the maiden grew more and more 
mist-like and ethereal until finally Arthur's wondering eyes could no 
longer distinguish the faintest trace of her. Then he and Merlin 
rowed out to the middle of the lake, and Arthur, almost fearing to 
see it vanish too, firmly grasped the sword, whereupon the arm clothed 
in white samite was immediately withdrawn, and the waters closed 
over it. 

The moment that the weapon touched the young King's hand, a 
strange thrill seemed to pass through his whole being and he felt 
within himself the strength of ten men. Curiously he drew it from its 
scabbard, and saw the blade flash in the sunlight so that he was almost 
blinded. Merlin, meanwhile, had been watching him with interest, 
and now he put a strange question to him: 

"Which would you rather have," said he, "the sword or the 
scabbard?" 

Then Arthur, brave knight that he was, answered almost scorn- 
fully: "What a question, Merlin! The sword to be sure. It is the 
most wonderful thing I have ever seen. When I hold it in my hand I 
feel that no enemy could ever again prevail against me." 

"It is a wonderful weapon, indeed," replied Merlin gravely. "The 
name of it is Excalibur, which is to say 'Cut-Steel', and it is given to 
you whom men will call the White King that you may fight, not to 
win glory for yourself, but to right the wrongs of the weak and the 
oppressed as you have promised, and that you may drive the heathen 
from the land. Yes, it is a wonderful sword, but the scabbard is more 
wonderful still; for while it is in your possession you can never be 
killed in battle, and though you may be wounded your wounds will 
never bleed and you will lose no strength. Guard it well." 

They were silent for a while as Merlin rowed back to shore, and 
Arthur stood lost in thought examining his treasure. 

"See," said he at last, "on each side of the blade there is an in- 
scription in a foreign tongue. Can you read them for me, Merlin.? " 

"The words are ancient Hebrew," was the reply. "One side 
says 'Take me' and the other says 'Cast me away.' " 

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'Then which ought I to do?" asked Arthur puzzled. 

"Take it and strike," was the firm answer. "The time to cast it 
away will come, but it is still far distant. Yes, take the sword and 
strike with all your might." 

Now it happened that not long after this adventure Arthur had 
an opportunity of testing the powers of this wonderful Excalibur. 

As he sat in his throne room one day in his castle at Camelot two 
messengers arrived and were ushered into his presence. 

"We come," said they, "from King Leodogran of Cameliard who 
pays tribute to you, as he paid it to your royal father Uther Pendragon. 
Our King is aged and his Knights, too, are well advanced in years, so 
that they can no longer iight as in the days of old; and now our 
kingdom is threatened by one Rience, King of North Wales, for he 
has sent a message to our master saying that he has in preparation a 
mantle whose only trimming shall be the beards of kings. Eleven of 
these beards he has already, but he needs one more, and he insolently 
demands that our good Master send him his, otherwise he says he 
will come and take it, along with the head to which it belongs. There- 
fore have we come to you, O young White King of the noble heart and 
mighty arm, because you have made it known that you ever stand 
ready to render aid to the weak and the oppressed." 

At these words Arthur's heart leaped within him, so glad was he 
of this opportunity of using Excalibur in another's cause. Then he 
looked about among his knights and saw the fire of his own enthusiasm 
leap into the eyes of first one and then another. The next moment the 
whole room presented the appearance of a forest of glittering swords, 
for every weapon had been drawn from its scabbard and was being 
pointed upward as a sign that its owner was ready to follow his Liege 
Lord into battle, while a cry arose from all as from one man, "The 
quest, Sir King!" 

In an incredibly short time the army was on the march northward 
through the deep snows, for it was winter; nevertheless, it so happened 
that, by Merlin's aid, it reached Cameliard even before the return of 
the messengers whom Leodogran had sent. Strangely unwearied by 
the journey, it arrived at the gate of the city one evening when the 
sun was sinking in the west, and found, as was but natural in time of 
war, that all was tightly closed. 

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"Ride straight on," said Merlin, "as if there were no obstacle in 
your way, and you will find no difficulty." 

And so it was, for when Arthur's horse came abreast the gates 
swung wide, and the whole army passed through and started on its 
way to the castle where Leodogran was holding a council of war. 

The young King's intentions were so good that he had scarcely 
realized what the effect of such an entrance into the town would be 
upon the people. Now, however, he saw them come trooping from 
their homes to stand in the streets, silent with amazement and pale 
with fear, while every roof was crowded with terrified women and 
children, even to the battlements of the palace itself where some of the 
ladies of the court, having heard a rumor of strange happenings, had 
climbed and were looking down upon the invading host. 

It was at this moment that Arthur chanced to raise his eyes, and 
what he saw was a vision that never faded for him through all the 
days of his life. This was the face of a girl, the glory of whose golden 
hair- was lighted by the setting sun, so that it appeared to the young 
man like the halo of a saint. 

"Who is that. Merlin?" he asked breathlessly. 

"That," replied the Wise One whose gaze did not even have to 
follow Arthur's to learn of whom he spoke, "That is the Princess 
Guinevere, the only daughter of Leodogran, and cherished by him as 
the apple of his eye." 

The young man said no more, but at that moment he made a 
mighty resolve to fight in the cause of the old King as he had never 
fought before; and he suddenly felt his arm strengthened as it had 
not been even by that first touch of Excalibur. 

He, Merlin, and a few of the chief nobles now passed into the 
council chamber where the news of their sudden and mysterious 
arrival had created even more terror than their march through the 
streets. It was Arthur's plan to keep his identity a secret until after 
the battle, and this was an easy matter, for Leodogran could not 
imagine it possible that aid could have reached him from Camelot so 
soon; but it proved a harder matter to make the old King feel that 
he could trust these strangers. No one could ever look long into 
Arthur's face, however, without coming to believe in his truth and 
sincerity ; so before the council closed it was arranged that Leodogran, 

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whi-le awaiting the return of his messengers, should accept the help 
of these strange visitors. 

The next morning, therefore, the two armies were on the march 
towards the plain just outside the city walls where Rience, himself a 
man twice the size of ordinary men, was encamped with his giant 
knights. 

Merlin bore before his sovereign the mystic standard with the 
golden dragon that had belonged to Uther Pendragon, but which, 
now that it was Arthur's ensign was beginning to show more wonderful 
qualities than ever; for, as the battle waxed hotter and hotter, it seemed 
that the dragon was spouting fire from his nostrils, so that the young 
King's position was easily distinguished by the anxious spectators 
on the city walls, and especially by the ladies on the battlements of 
the castle among whom was the Princess Guinevere. 

All day long the battle raged, but wherever Arthur appeared 
with that strange standard, the enemies, giants though they were, 
either fled terror stricken or fell 
lifeless under the mighty strokes 
of Excalibur, until gradually they 
were driven farther and farther 
from the walls, and it seemed that 
the victory was well-nigh in sight. 
Then a terrible thing happened. 

Leodogran, exhausted by the 
struggle, but feeling secure in his 
young champion's strength, had 
withdrawn himself to a quieter 
part of the field. This, however, 
was the very opportunity for 
which Rience had been waiting. 
Leaving Arthur, therefore, still 
in the thick of the fight, he and 
a dozen or more of his kniglits 
wheeled their horses about and 
bore down upon the old King 
with the intention of dragging "fire spouted FRoyHE dragon's 
him off a prisoner. To the Princess *st. Michael. [Courksy Braun ei ae.] 




THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



from her point of vantage on the tower it seemed that her father was 
now lost indeed, and she had ahiiost fainted in despair when she saw 
the young stranger stop fighting, disentangle himself from the fray, 
and speed across the plain. There he charged with such a mighty 
shock against the giants that were bearing Leodogran away that 
they dropped their prisoner and fled for their lives. A moment later 
the whole army of Rience was in confused retreat, with Arthur and 
his knights in pursuit. 

Thus the day was won for King Leodogran; and that evening 
at the feast that was made for the victors, the beautiful Princess, to 
show her gratitude, served the valiant young stranger with her own 
fair hands, and thanked him simply and modestly for saving her 
father's life. 

That night, if ever in his life, Arthur had expected to sleep 
soundly, but he found to his surprise that even the weariness of his 
body was not sufficient to overcome this strange new agitation of his 
heart: At dawn, therefore, he arose and sought the counsel of Merlin. 

"Merlin," said he, trying to pretend that it was a matter of state 
that had been disturbing his rest. "My Lords have long advised me 
to take a wife. What have you to say on this subject? " 

"Is there any damsel in particular that you have in mind.'^" asked 
the Wise Man, endeavoring to look very sober. 

"Yes," said Arthur, "the Princess Guinevere is the fairest maiden 
in all the world, as any man with eyes can see. If I might win her for 
my bride I should be the happiest man on earth." 

"And if I were to counsel you not to try to win her, would that 
make any difference?" asked Merlin quietly. 

"Not the slightest," was the firm reply. 

" Then, why are you asking my advice? " and the Wise One smiled. 

"I do not ask it. Merlin," admitted Arthur. "This is a matter 
that I settle for myself; but I do beseech you to go to King Leodogran 
for me and ask for his daughter's hand." 

"I may have to make your identity known," said Merlin. 

"That you have my permission to do, if necessary," Arthur 
agreed. 

A little later in the day, therefore, when King Leodogran and his 
ministers were assembled in the throne room, Merlin came before 

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them and made a formal request for the hand of the Princess in the 
name of his young master. When he had finished speaking a deep 
silence fell upon the room. Presently the old King began to speak: 

"Your master," said he, "is a brave knight and a valiant gentle- 
man. Into the care of such a one would I gladly give the Jewel of my 
court. Moreover, my debt of gratitude to him is greater than I can 
ever repay. And yet — and yet — " 

"And yet what?" inquired Merlin. 

"My child is the daughter of a long line of kings, therefore it is 
not fitting that I should bestow her hand upon one whose rank is not 
equal to her own; and yet — and yet — " 

Then the Wise Man smiled. 

"Have you any idea, my Lord," said he, "who the young knight 
is who fought so valiantly in your cause?" 

"No," replied Leodogran, "he seemed unwilling to tell me, so by 
the laws of courtesy I was bound to ask no questions." 

"Then, Sir King, let me inform you," and Merlin's voice rang 
out clear and strong, "that he is Arthur himself, your Liege Lord, 
who by my aid was able to reach you even before the return of your 
own messengers." 

"And you are Merlin!" cried the old King in joy. "You are 
welcome at my court, O Wise Man, as welcome as the news that you 
bring me; for, what greater happiness could come to me in my old 
age than that Arthur, the son of my friend and overlord UtherPendragon, 
should seek my daughter in marriage. Y^ou and he are welcome, in- 
deed!" 

The following day, therefore, when Arthur and his army set out 
on their homeward journey, he and the Princess were already be- 
trothed; and it was all arranged that, when the winter snows had 
melted, making it fit for her to travel, he would send for her that they 
might be married in his own capital city of Camelot. 

So Arthur returned to his own land and fought many a brave 
battle with his strong arm and Excalibur, while he waited impatiently 
for the first signs of spring. At last, however, the sun began to take 
on a new warmth, the snow gradually disappeared from hillside and 
plain, and a tender emerald haze silently enveloped the landscape. 
Then Arthur called to his side a young knight lately come to his court — 

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Laiincelot of the Lake by name — between whom and the King there 
existed the tenderest bond of friendship based upon mutual admiration. 

"Launcelot," said he, "I am a king, the servant of my people; 
therefore, I cannot as other men leave my post of duty to seek my 
bride. Go, then, for me, my most trusted friend; take Merlin with 
you lest you should need his aid, and bring me the beautiful Princess 
Guinevere." 

So the embassy set out through the soft April green, and returned 
when the woods were white with May. Southward toward the city 
of Camelot at Launcelot's side rode Guinevere, the Flower-of-the-May, 
seated on a cream-white mule, and wearing a gown of grass-green silk 
fastened with a golden clasp. 

"When they neared the mystic city upon whose gates Arthur's 
wars were prophetically rendered, the young King himself rode out 
to meet his bride ; and the next day they were married in the church at 
Camelot, the holy Archbishop himself pronouncing the words that 
bound them together for life. 

As they turned from the altar and passed homeward through the 
streets of the city which the little children had strewn with flowers, 
they were met by a band of white-garbed knights who blew upon 
golden trumpets and joyfully sang: 

" 'Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May! 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away ! 
Blow through the living world — "Let the King- reign!" 

" 'Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm? 
Flash brand and lance, fall battle-ax on helm, 
Fall battle-ax, and flash brand ! Let the King reign ! 

" 'Strike for the King and live! His knights have heard 
That God hath told the King a secret word. 
Fall battle-ax, and flash brand ! Let the King reign ! 



' Blow trumpet ! he will lift us from the dust. 
Blow trumpet ! live the strength and die the lust ! 
Clang battle-ax, and clash brand! Let the King reign! 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 





^^1 




1 




■BW ^IHH^^^rfl 



'THE ARCHBISHOP" 



[Courlesy Braun et Cie. ] 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



" 'Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest, 
The King is king, and ever wills the highest. 
Clang battle-ax, and clash brand ! Let the King reign ! 

'' 'Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day ! 
Clang battle-ax, and clash brand! Let the King reign! 

" ' The King will follow Christ, and we the King, 
In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. 
Fall battle-ax, and flash brand! Let the King reign!' " 

Such were the glories of Arthur's wedding day. Yet, these were 
not all. There remained yet a greater wonder. As the young King 
with his bride entered the chamber where the banquet was spread, a 
strange sight met his eyes: In the centre of the room stood an immense 
round table of rare workmanship. 

"What is that, Merlin.?" he inquired surprised, "and why is it 
here?" 

"That," replied the Wise Man, "is a mystic table that I myself 
made many years ago for your father, Uther Pendragon. It comes to 
you now as a wedding gift from King Leodogran in whose keeping it 
has been since Uther's death. About it, as you see are places for a 
hundred and fifty knights. Your father-in-law, as part of his gift, has 
sent you one hundred. The other fifty seats, or sieges, you are to fill 
yourself with young men of your own age as they prove themselves 
worthy. But, remember that none must ever take his place until his 
name appears of its own accord upon the siege that he is to 
occupy." 

An awed hush fell upon the company, while each man present 
was secretly wondering if he would be among the chosen ones. Then 
the Archbishop stepped forward and raised his arms over the table in 
blessing. As his words died away a strange thing happened: Upon 
one siege after another, as if a mysterious flame were leaping from 
place to place, golden letters spelling the names of knights began to 
appear until there were but twenty-two unclaimed places. In reverent 
silence the men thus called took their seats, and while they yet waited, 

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one more siege began to glow with the mysterious writing, 
however, instead of a name there appeared these words : 



This time, 



"THIS IS THE SIEGE PERILOUS IN WHICH NO 

MAN MAY SIT UNTIL THE COMING OF THE BEST 

KNIGHT IN ALL THE WORLD." 

Then Arthur, reading this inscription, turned to MerHn in surprise. 

"Surely," said he, "this is the place of Launcelot, for where 
could we ever find a knight that is better than he.^^" 

But the Wise Man shook his head sadly saying: 

"Let him never dare to take that place lest he be consumed by 
fire from heaven. The knight who is to sit there will surely come 
some day, but that time is still far distant. With these knights 
you must now found the ORDER OF THE ROUND TABLE, 
whose members are to be mystically chosen from among the flower of 
men, and whose vows shall be the noblest that ever knights took 
upon them." 

Then each of the chosen ones came forward, and kneeling before 
the throne where Arthur sat with his beautiful young queen beside 
him, laid his hand in his sovereign's and took the vow of the Order: 



"To reverence the King as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs. 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 
To honor his own word as if his God's, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
Until they won her." 

So the sun went down in golden glory upon Arthur's wedding day. 

The first number of the " The Story of King Arthur," entitled "Merlin and his Prophecies," was published in the July 
'. Number four, " The Adventures of Garelh — the Kitchen Knave," will appear in the November issue. 

226 



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Ol)e Stor^ of a Jpaper (Tutter 



w 



^Y (Tl^arles iDefodon 

(Translated by Winona C. Martin) 

^HAT a pretty paper-cutter you have there, grandfather!" 
"Yes, isn't it? The handle is made of the antler of a 
chamois." 

"Give it to me, won't you, grandfather?" 

"No, my boy, I cannot give it to you; for it is a souvenir — a 
souvenir of a very sad adventure," 

"Then tell me about the adventure, grandfather." 

"Very well; although it always makes me sad to think of it. 
But first of all, do you know just what a chamois is?" 

"Not exactly." 

"The chamois, my dear Henry, is the goat of the high mountains 
— not a gentle, tame goat like your aunt's 'Jeannette,' but a wild 
and fierce goat living in liberty on the most solitary and most inac- 
cessible peaks. Its horn, as you see, is not very long. It rises nearly 
straight up from the forehead, then, near the tip, it curves suddenly 
backward so as to form a hook. Otherwise the chamois is much like 
an ordinary goat, but thick and short, robust, agile, able to take 
extraordinary leaps. 

"The chamois live in flocks, and these flocks are no longer very 
numerous, for the species is becoming more and more rare. Their 
best season is the summer — the short mountain summer — when they 
can browse on the shoots of the willow trees, of the raspberry bushes 
and of the beautiful rhododendron which we cultivate so carefully 
in our gardens, but which, in the Alps, grows wild almost to the snow- 
line. In the winter the chamois lives as best he can nibbling roots 
and digging bits of moss from beneath the snow. 

"Rather a miserable existence, don't you think? And moreover 
we men make it still more miserable, for we hunt him for pleasure — 
rather a barbarous pleasure, I admit — to his last retreat. Yet, 
after all, it is so alluring!" 

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"Then you have hunted the chamois, grandfather?" 

*'0h! yes; and that brings nie to my story. It was some thirty 
years ago, and I did not dream then that I should some day become 
the severe, greyhaired grandpapa of my httle Henry. I was vigorous 
and strong, as your father is to-day, and I used to go every year to 
Switzerland and the Tyrol — the land of the mountains. 

"The mountains! Ah! my little Henry, if you only knew how 
beautiful they are! At present you are still too young, but some day 
I will take you there. Nothing that you have ever yet seen can give 
you an idea of them. Look at those white clouds that are fleeing 
before us across the sky, and imagine, if you can, beneath those 
clouds enormous masses of rocks of all shapes and sizes, broken, 
thrown one upon another, standing upon end, pointed, covered at 
their base, and to a very great height, with forests and pasture lands, 
beyond that all grey and bare where no vegetation can sprout, and 
higher still, glittering in the sunshine, great stretches of ice and snow! 

"I am describing them to you as best I can, but I know well 
enough that nothing that I can say will make you understand why 
one loves the mountains; why one who has once seen them and 
dwelled among them has them forever before his eyes; why a man dreams 
of returning to them, even when he is old — like your grandfather. 

"Well, as I was saying, it was some thirty years ago, and I had 
made the acquaintance of the best and the bravest of men. He 
was called Franz Miiller, and he acted, at least during the summer 
season, both as a hunter of the chamois and as a guide for strangers; 
for, if the mountains are alluring, they are also very dangerous. 

"Franz lived in a deep valley. His chalet was a charming little 
retreat sheltered from the intense cold of winter in a cleft of the rock, 
yet cozily exposed to the noonday sun. In summer it was half 
hidden beneath an arbor over which grew one of those gourd-bearing 
vines that they cultivate in that country. It seems to me that I 
see him yet seated on his stone bench smoking his clay pipe, or saying 
good-bye to his wife, the good Betzy, and to his little son Caspar, 
a boy like you, or even younger, who was rather afraid of his father's 
big moustache. 

" 'Come, give me your hand,' Franz would say to him. 'You're 
going to be a fine, brave man, aren't you.''' 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"And Gaspar would reply: 'Yes, papa.' 
" 'And a good hunter like your father?' 
" 'Yes, papa.' 

" 'Let the child alone, Franz,' old mother Gretchen would call 
from the doorway. 'Don't you see that he doesn't understand.'*' " 
" 'Now, now, mother, I know what I'm talking about. He must 
learn all about these things while he is young.' 
"And Franz would march off, singing as he went. 
"It was he who conducted our hunting parties. One day, under 
his direction three of my friends and I were just about to set out 
when we saw coming toward us a tall Englishman. 

'Are you the guide in these parts.'*' he said to Franz. 
" 'At your service. Milord,' replied Franz, for to the inhabitants 
of the mountains all Englishmen are 'milords.' 

'No, not my lord,' said the Englishman, 'Mr. Williamson, of 
the house of Williamson and Co., Groceries and Pickles, London.' 
"Franz bowed. 

" 'My neighbor, Mr. Jacobson, of the house of Jacobson and 
Co., London, climbed last year to the top of that little peak,' — and 
he pointed to one of the loftiest summits. 'I wish this year to ascend 
still higher to the top of that other little peak,'^and this time he 
pointed to a crest that was even sharper and of greater altitude than 
the first. 

'Milord,' replied Franz. 
'No, not my lord, Mr. Williamson.' 

'Mr. Williamson,' repeated Franz, 'what you ask is in this 
season absolutely impossible.' 
" 'I will pay you well.' 

'If you paid me millions, I would not guide you.' 
'Then I will go alone.' 

'I warn you again that it is quite impossible.' 
'The word impossible is not Fre — , or rather not English.' 
Then as Franz did not reply, 'So you will not come with me.'^' 
"Franz shook his head. 

'Then I bid you good-day.' 
"And Mr. Williamson turned on his heel, while we smilingly 
watched his tall form pass stiffly down the path. 

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"All day long we climbed the mountain, yet the game did not 
show itself. Only at sunset did we see, half hidden by a curtain of 
pine, appearing from behind a glacier, about ten chamois running 
faster than the wind as if driven by a frenzy of insane fear. One 
only passed within range. I aimed at him and he fell. 

'Bravo!' cried Franz, 'you have hit him; but let us run quickly 
to fetch him, for the clouds are gathering. If we delay it will be 
dangerous on the glacier.' 

"As we gathered about the wounded chamois, a shot reverberated 
in the upper regions of the mountains. 
'Listen!' said Franz. 

"A second shot, coming from the same place resounded, and 
was caught up by the echoes. 

'It is the Englishman! The fool! He must have ascended 
alone, and now the storm is gaining upon him. Up there, where he 
is, he is lost!' Then, holding out his hand to us, 'Gentlemen,' Franz 
Mil Her continued, 'I am going. It shall never be said that a stranger, 
while a guide knew of his danger, perished among us for want of help.' 

"Said I to him, 'we will go with you.' 

'Mr. Bernard,' he replied, 'I know you well enough, you and 
your friends, to tell you that I would accept your offer, that I would 
even have asked your help, if it would be of the slightest use; but, 
as you can see for yourselves, you would only retard me Descend 
as quickly as possible, and, if you will be so kind, warn the other 
guides.' 

"There were other requests on his lips, as we understood well 
enough; but he would not take the time to say more. 

"So we descended with saddened hearts. 

"And the next day, my little Henry, the guides returned bearing 
upon their shoulders the tall Englishman, pale, almost unrecognizable, 
scarcely breathing — and the body of Franz M Her, his skull crushed 
and his back broken. 

"At the end of eight days, when the Englishman, still very weak, 
was able to speak a few words, he murmured: 

" 'Monsieur the Guide, I thank you; if you had not come I 
would have been lost!' 

" 'The guide!' cried those who stood about, 'he is dead!' 

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" 'Dead! Ah! that is a terrible misfortune. But I will send 
money, much money from England.' 

"And, in fact, when he had recovered he did send much money; 
but his guineas did not restore to us our noble Franz. 

"And now, my little Henry, I can tell you why I wish to keep my 
paper-cutter. That horn belonged to the last chamois that I ever 
killed — you can guess the reason, can you not.'* — I have never hunted 
since." 

"And the little Gaspar," inquired Henry, *' what became of him?" 

"He kept his promise, my child; he is to-day a brave man like 
his father, and like him he guides strangers in the mountains." 



^ !!^owl of flom63e 

[Note by the Editor: The incident upon which this story is founded was hinted at in an old book of family 
histories, and the facts are said to be quite true.) 

^^^ OBERT Bruce had been given the badge of King-hood, but in 

^JJ spite of that, for a long time he was able to hold only an out- 

law's independence against the English King. He wandered 

through the wilds of Scotland, with a few devoted followers, fighting 

every Englishman who came his way. 

Early one morning he was attacked by an English Knight, not 
far from a cottage, where the housewife was cooking the breakfast 
porridge. The fight was a furious one, and the followers on both sides 
lay wounded on the grass. The sound of the clashing of swords reached 
the ears of the dame in her kitchen. Although she was young, she was 
very brave, and as she had a kind heart and good sense, she dropped 
the spoon with which she was stirring the porridge, and ran to the foot 
of the hill to see what was the matter. 

She found the two Knights with their visors closed, fighting hard, 
and she tried to discover which was Robert Bruce. She stood for 
some time watching the fire flash from their helmets, uncertain how to 
help her King, when suddenly the sword of one came down with a 

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crash upon the helmet of the other. 
An exclamation told which Knight 
had an English tongue in his head. 

*'I know thee now! I know 
thee now!" she said, and seizing 
a lock of hair that escaped from 
his helmet, she pulled him back- 
wards, to the ground. 

There was nothing now for 
the English Knight but to ad- 
mit that he was beaten, so they 
both washed their hands in the 
brook near by, and seated them- 
selves in the cottage kitchen to 
rest. 

"I have not tasted food for 
two days," said Bobert Bruce, 
"else an English Knight would 
not have held out against me so 
long." *' And I," said the English- 
man, "found the leader of the 
men of Scotland, not an easy foe with whom to exchange blows." 

" 'Leader of the men of Scotland,' indeed!" said the angry dame, 
"Robert Bruce is King in this house, and a King shall ye call him, 
too, or I will cast the boiling porridge in thy face." 

"Thou art kind and loyal," said King Robert, '^but do not waste 
food in such a way, but let me taste of thy good porridge. Come, 
this Englishman is hungry, too, so a spoon for each, and let us begin." 

The good wife filled a wooden bowl with smoking porridge and 
placed it before her King. "I should be no true subject, if I showed 
hospitality to the man who lately laid his steel with such right good 
will against my King." 

"I commend thy loyalty, and thus will I reward it," said King 
Robert. "This land, thou knowest, is mine. The hill behind thy 
cottage is green and fair, and the valley before is fertile. I make thee 
Lady of as much as thou canst run around, while I eat my porridge. 
The food is hot, the bowl is large, so kilt thy coats, and fly!" 

232 



"FILLED THE BOWL WITH PORRIDGE"* 

The Cook. [Courtesy Braun et Cie.] 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Quickly she tucked up her skirts and bound up her hair, and 
stood ready on the threshold. 

"Now," said Robert Bruce, "a woman's speed against a King's 
hunger. Away!" As he raised the spoon to his lips, the dame dis- 
appeared. The path around the hill was rough with stones and thorns, 
but she stopped for nothing. She had gone but a short distance when 
she saw a fox slyly making off with a goose that she had fattened. 
"May the huntsman get ye! But a rod of land is better than a fat 
goose," and she ran on till she came to the mill. The miller lay sleep- 
ing on a sack, and the fire that dried his oats was running up to the 
roof and flashing red along the rafters. 

"Thee will have to lose thy mill, for if I stop to wake thee, the 
King will reach the bottom cf the bowl before I round the hill." Soon 
she had to pass her cottage on her way. She stopped for an instant 
to look in at the casement, and saw the two guests, side by side with 
one spoon between them, taking turns at the porridge. The dame 
waited long enough to say, "Fair play, my liege, fair play!" 

"I like the hearty little housewife, and her porridge is not amiss, 
but I shall not soon forget with what a will she twisted my lock," and 
the Englishman rubbed the back of his head. 

The dame now reached the place where the battle had been fought. 
As she jumped over the little brook, she saw the helmet of a slain 
knight lying in her path. Its silver and gold ornaments glittered in 
the sun, but she did not stop to pick it up. Three English horses 
grazed among her corn, but she did not touch their bridles. 

When the dame came to her cottage door, she had circled the 
mount in her flight. "I shall be Lady of the Mount," she said, "and 
my husband, the Lord of it. Our sons will marry among the mighty, 
and our daughters be the toast of barons." 

And King Robert said, "Fair and loyal subject, the mount is 
yours, till the name of Robert Bruce perishes in song and story!" 



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3fow a Storp Oelling Ceague 

OAto Normal College, Miami University, Oxford, Ohio 

Editor's Note: — Many inquiries are being constantly received by The Storytellers' 
Magazine as to the best methods of forming a "Story Tellers' League." 

No better answer to these inquiries can be given than is to be found in Miss Logan's interest- 
ing description, which is cordially commended to all who are interested in the great work of 
bringing the STORYTELLERS together. 



H 



HANGE the words of the great writer to say: 

"We're made so that we love 

First when we hear them spoken, stories we 

Perhaps a hundred times have passed nor cared to read." - 



This might explain the attitude of the educational world today toward 
the marvelous power of the story. But this is no new thing, for in all ages, 
and by all peoples, has it been recognized. 

How the early people lived, how their beliefs and institutions developed, 
are revealed in the myths and legends transmitted to eager audiences 
by the bards, the minstrels, the wandering troubadours. In the icy north- 
ern lands the stalwart chief reciting the deeds of brave heroes aroused to 
greater acts of prowess his warrior band, who clashed their shields and 
shouted with approval. The mother of today in answer to the pleadings 
of her child tells the story of Cinderella. Does she know that she is only 
following the example set, ages ago, of the Egyptian nurse recounting to 
her charge the universal truth of the Dawn and Sun? 

The culture power of this great literary inheritance is recognized by 
society in all its institutions. So, in the course of study of every school 
for every grade, the value of story-telling is emphasized. The modern 
educator has turned to wise use this element that nourished the infancy 
of the race by recognizing that this same element will afford the best food 
for the children of today. Everywhere the teachers are seeking material 

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to satisfy the demand. What shall be told? When? How? are ques- 
tions asked on every hand. 

Recognizing the needs and desires of the educational world the Ohio 
State Normal College of Miami University in the summer term of 1907 
invited Mr. Richard Wyche, the president of the National Story-Telling 
League, to come to Oxford and acquaint the students more fully with this 
form of culture. Daily there collected in historic Bishop Chapel an in- 
terested audience to hear him. Sometimes he recounted the valorous deeds 
of Beowulf, or Siegfried, or of King Arthur and his Court; sometimes he 
recited in his inimitable way the folk lore of Uncle Renuis. In accordance 
with his suggestion there gathered at the twilight hour under the old elm 
tree east of Brice Hall, a group of students to listen to stories and to tell 
them. Nature and history had conspired to make the place itself seem 
peculiarly fitting for such an assembly. A beautiful scene of peaceful 
fertile valleys and wooded hills spread itself before the eye. Overhead 
the birds sang their sweetest as they flitted from branch to branch. The 
curious squirrel paused to chatter his surprise at this invasion of his terri- 
tory. The magnificent tree was the one that, generations ago, grew a 
slender sapling under the corner of the little two-room log house that 
served alike for residence of the teacher and for school. This building was 
erected because of the act of the Legislature of 1809 creating the body- 
politic known as the President and Trustees of Miami University, in ac- 
cordance with the ordinance of Congress in 1785 reserving a portion of land 
for school purposes in the western territory. Almost joining branches 
with the elm tree stands a great maple planted by McGuffey, the author 
of the well-known readers. In an open space near by, in the beginning of 
the nineteenth century, a brave pioneer, Rev. Moses Crume, had found an 
encampment of Indians. Gathering them around him, he had related to 
them the old, old story of the promise of eternal life. With the inspiration 
of such historic associations, does not this place seem peculiarly adapted 
for the spreading of such movements as shall educate the nation? 

Greater interest was roused in the summer term of 1908 by the splendid 
talks of Miss Maud Summers to the teachers in her classes on the possibilities 
of a properly arranged series of stories to be told to the different grades of 
children and to be expressed by them through dramatization. In the con- 
ference hours that followed, many inquiries were made for lists of stories, 
for directions how to tell them. Students confessed their lack of training, 

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their inability to secure material; their need of libraries, no resources being 
in their schools except the text-books used by the children. Many persons 
were invited to aid in these conferences and valuable suggestions were given 
as to means of building up libraries, of arousing neighborhood interest, 
A series of stories was planned based on the dominant interests of children 
in their various stages of growth: curiosity, imitation, love of possession, 
self-importance, adventure, desire for power, community interest, etc. 
Most interesting discussions arose as to what were the type stories that 
would pave the way for higher order of development. 

Following logically came the desire to put these newly acquired notions 
into practice. So, one summer evening, a company of student teachers 
organized themselves into the Storytelling League of the Ohio State Normal 
College of Miami University. The organization was a very simple one, 
about the only requirement being that each member on his return home 
should gather together a similar company, even if it consist of only two or 
three persons, with the aim of entering into the kingdom of literature and 
possessing the power to bequeath it to others. 

One hundred and fifty-six members enrolled that evening. Every 
Wednesday at twilight the League met. Valuable assistance was given by 
Miss Cone of the Music Department, in the songs song by her students. 
The program was a varied one. Myths, legends, bits of folk-lore, poems, 
ghost stories, were enjoyed. One evening some of the older citizens gave 
actual experiences of pioneer days; a war hero recounted the deeds of '63; a 
minister who had gone down in ships told thrilling tales of the sea; a dear 
old lady with the genuine Scotch accent, stirred the emotions of all as the 
printed page could not with the pathos of some of the incidents of the 
Bonnie Brier Bush. 

The summer of 1909 brought many new members to the League. At 
the close of the term the children of the practice department of the Normal 
College gave a play festival. It is needless to say that this feature at- 
tracted a large audience, for it revealed possibilities of impression and ex- 
pression in rhythm movements and dramatization, as the children acted 
out the movements of nature and song, the simple rhymes, the folk-lore of 
"Three Billy Goats Gruff." the May -pole dance of the English festival, 
and the "Making of the First Flag." One Sunday just before the closing 
days, after an inspiring sermon by President Benton, the League gathered 
for an after service under the great trees. In the simple direct language of 

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the scriptures the "Healing of Nacaman" was told. With the singing of the 
birds, the strings of a violin, wonderfully well played, gave forth the mes- 
sage of the musician. The legend " In the Desert of Waiting" brought home 
to each one in the audience that he is the alchemist of his own fortune. After 
the story of "The Syrian Guest," with its marvelous word pictures of the 
Orient, those assembled recited "The Lord is My Shepherd" and went 
quietly away feeling it had been good to be there. 

What has been the results.? From far-off Washington State in the 
west, from a New England College have comes echoes. 

"Away down the river 

A hundred miles or more. 
Other little children 

Shall bring my boats ashore." 



From the gathering under the "Old Elm" have gone forth teachers 
filled with desire to bring to their pupils some of the vision of the enchanted 
land that had been given to them in the summers from 1907 to the present 
time. In a school largely attended by foreigners one teacher reported that 
the pupils felt that a great discovery had been made when they found in 
books the stories they had so enjoyed hearing her tell. Requests were made 
continually to read from these books. From the South a teacher writes 
that one morning she came upon her janitor, age forty-five, completely 
absorbed in a volume of Reynard the Fox, a book used by her Second 
Reader pupils. The surrender of both children and grown-ups to the 
story-teller is absolute and inviolable. 

"Outside fell the sun"s richest glory. 

Inside there were small restless feet. 
'Come, children. 111 tell you a story.' 

Oh! wonderful words, low and sweet! 
The sentence had hardly been spoken 

When fluttering hands came to rest 
And silence, intense and unbroken, 

Wrapped all, from the worst to the best; 
And soon every dear little face 

By changing expression was lightened. 
A magic seemed laid on the place. 

As every soul wakened from slumber 
And peeped from its window to see, 

I thought of the tiiles without number 
Christ told by the blue Galilee." 

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Other activities have been affected besides the school work, to help 
which the League was primarily organized. A playground attendant wrote 
that she had decided to hold a story-hour at the time she gathered the 
little ones for their lunch of bread and milk at eleven o'clock in the morning. 
The result was that games and apparatus were abandoned even by the 
older children, who clamored eagerly for the repetition of favorite story or 
verse. She held the breathless attention of these street urchins as she 
told of the deeds of Robin Hood and explained the conditions of the times 
when the country was not protected by law and justice. In a Playground 
Congress, while reports were being made of work attempted in this line, 
a mayor of an eastern city who had casually dropped in to the meeting, 
became so interested that he remained over a day to make eager inquiries, 
in order to return to his city to carry into effect some of the suggestions. 
A social worker realized great possibilities in another direction. She had 
discovered that the noon hour of a group of factory girls was passed in idle, 
vapid, if not worse, gossip. To this company she came to tell such stories, 
most carefully planned, as would interest them. From this small begin- 
ning it would be difficult to estimate the value of the results. A librarian 
had noticed that the boys collected round the court house to watch the 
proceedings within, to peer into the jail windows, eager to recount to each 
other the latest arrest, and the cause. Gathering a group around her in 
the park that surrounded the court house, she gave of her best in the story 
line to outdo the interests that seemed to her to contain so many elements 
of dangers. It was not long until she had persuaded the leaders to seek 
the library, where she offered greater attractions in the way of stereopticon, 
pictures, stories, books. Can the good be measured that will come in years 
from this work of one person? 

And so from year to year the League continues to grow in enthusiasm. 
More and more are teachers coming to see that leading the child into the 
story world is but revealing the kingdoms that belong to him. 



A department of Story Telling is being planned in connection with 
,The Child Welfare Exhibition to be held at Peoria, Ills., under the direction 
of Miss'Mary B. Swain, of the Russell Sage Foundation. 



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{From the Irish) 

^^ ^tlarietta StocKar6 



w 




"BARNEY"* 



*Boy with Torn Hat 
Sully, Boston. 



[Courtesy Braun et Cie.] 



^HEN he was a little lad, 
Barney Noonan's mother 
told him of the "good 
folk" and all their cunning ways, 
so he looked and listened and 
longed to meet them. 

Sometimes when he lay 
dreaming under the trees he 
would hear a sound like gurgling 

laughter and, knowing that it was the fairies, would start up hoping 
to catch them. 

Sometimes in the moonlight he felt sure he saw them, but drawing 
near there was nothing. 

"Never mind, Barney," his mother would say, "They are there, 
keep wishing and looking, perhaps j'ou'll see them yet and when you do, 
mind you behave politely to them if you would have their friendship." 

Well, time went on, and Barney grew to be a big lad. He was al- 
ways kind to his old mother, and in all of Ireland there was no harder 
worker than he. He could play, too, as hard as he could work, and his 
merry laughing ways were good to see. 

One summer evening after a hard day's work, Barney lay under a 
tree watching the stars twinkling above him. He was very still, in fact 
was half asleep, when he heard voices near him. 

"Yes, that's our best dancing place, but let him alone," he heard 
a tiny voice say. 

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"Well, since it's Barney, we'll wait. He is a fine lad and his mother 
is our friend. She has brought him up to think well of us," said another. 

"Tis the good folk, as I live," thought Barney. 

He turned his head and looked in the direction of the voices, 
but there was nothing to be seen except the green grass waving in 
the evening breeze. 

Barney stood up and, making a low bow, said, "I hope you'll 
forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, I was only resting here a bit. I'll 
be going home to my mother now and I promise not to take your 
favorite dancing place again." 

There was no sound of answer, but from that time on the fairies 
were Barney's friends. 

Their friendship didn't give him wealth, but perhaps that proved 
their real friendship. Barney worked hard as ever, but his heart was 
merry even if he didn't always find money in his pocket. 

It was because he was needing some money that he planned to go 
up to town one fair day to sell his calf. 

He woke early in the morning and when he saw what a beautiful 
sunshiny day it was he said to himself, "I'll just get up and cut my hay 
before I go to town. " 

So he went down into the meadow and pretty soon the hay was 
all mowed and spread out in the sunshine to dry. 

Then Barney drove his calf into town and sold it for a good price. 
Soon he met some of his friends who had come to the fair too, and 
Ihere was such dancing and merrymaking, that Barney forgot all 
about his hay lying out in the field. It was long after dark when he 
started home and when he was there he rolled into bed without giving 
a thought to the hay. 

While he lay snoring in his bed the clouds were piling up moun- 
tain high in the west. The wind began blowing, the thunder rolled 
and lightning flashed. A loud clap of thunder woke him, he sat up in 
bed and remembered his hay. 

"What shall I do!" he thought. "The last blade of my hay will 
be ruined." 

Looking through his window, he saw a sight that made him stare. 
There was a great crowd of little men. and women running about like 
mad. A row of fires was burning from the meadow to the barn and the 

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wee folk were hurrying from tlie meadow, each with an armful of hay. 
Some were in the barn receiving the liay, some were in the field raking 
it together, and some were standing around with hands in their pockets 
Hke bosses, telling the others what to do. 

"It isn't every farmer that has such haymakers," thought Barney, 
but he was careful not to say a word, for he knew the good folk would 
not like it. 

When they had finished putting in the hay they began dancing 
before the fires to the most beautiful music Barney had ever heard. 

By and by, two of the little men came dragging out a jug and 
they all began drinking from little glasses. 

Barney saw that it was his own jug of cider, the last that he had. 
He stood still and watched them as they drank glass after glass. He 
wanted it for himself and he began to feel angry with the fairies for 
drinking it all up. 

At last, forgetting all about their hard work with the hay, he 
shouted out, "Stop, you little pigs, at least leave me a sip of my own 
cider!" 

Instantly everything was dark except for the flashes of lightning 
and not a fairy was to be seen. 

Barney went back to bed saying, "Well, at any rate I'm glad the 
hay is in," for by that time the rain was coming down in torrents. 

The next morning he went down to the barn to look at the hay 
to see if the fairies had put it in right, for, he said, "It's not a job they 
are used to." 

Well, he stood and stared sure enough, for there was not a blade 
of hay left in the barn. 

Going down into the meadow he found it lying just where he had 
left it and 'twas soaked through by the rain. 

Barney knew well what had happened. Angered by his rudeness, 
the fairies had dragged it all back into the field again and left it there 
to teach him better manners next time. 

You may be sure that if ever the fairies helped him again he 
didn't go calling them names or grudging them a bit of cider in return 
for their work. 



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O^elKatpHfagp Storytellers 

^ Y ^va Dawson 

'^^^ HE Katy Hagy Story Telling Club for Boys of South Knoxville, 

4 ^j Tennessee, was organized in 1911, with an enrollment of fifteen, 

and for two years there was full attendance, rain or shine. 

This summer there were several new additions, but for various reasons 
the attendance remains about the same. 

Since the club bears an Indian name, Indian parliamentary rules are 
observed; so on the days the club meets, which are three times a week, the 
Superintendent, after the manner of an Indian chief, mounts the stump 
(the place of meeting is outdoors, and is made like an Indian council fire), 
and sends the war whoops ringing, and this cry is taken up by one of the 
members, who begins to run through the town to gather in the other mem- 
bers. 

This whoop is a signal for the club boys to assemble, just as it used to 
assemble the braves in early days. 

In a surprisingly short time the place is filled, and after the roll call, 
in which each lad answers to an Indian name, the subject for the next 
meeting is chosen, then the story-telling begins. 

Different kinds of stories are told. The stories that have gladdened 
hearts from time immemorial down to the modern ones. But the stories 
must be about men who have loved and worked to raise their fellow-men, 
such as King Arthur. 

Among the favorite stories are the Wanderings of ^neas the Trojan 
hero, and Ulysses the Grecian hero; Hiawatha, the Indian heroine, and 
Washington, the American, and the greatest of them all. 

Each of these heroes has given the boys a love for truth and courage, 
unconsciously however. 

The tales of the gods and heroes are enjoyed, some of Shakespeare's tales 
also; but the best loved are the stories taken from poetry and travel. 

The ever-famous Rip Van Winkle, Ichabod Crane, and some stories 
from "Tales of a Traveler "are greatly enjoyed. 

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The Bible stories have been told with success, and it is hoped that 
they will become more popular. 

Many stories have been retold and greeted with the same enthusiasm 
that they received at first. 

Since the organization of these clubs, a slow but steady improvement 
has been made in the boys. They no longer run wildly through the streets, 
menacing windows and flower garden, or torture some helpless puppy or 
kitten. They befriend all animals and to every one they are growing thought- 
ful and obliging. 

Of course there is much to be desired. They are not angels by any 
means, but with an honest start, they may make honest useful citizens 
and be a living proof of what good literature can do for mankind. 

Since joining Mr. Wyche's class this summer, I have been so very ma- 
terially helped in my work, that I would need the pen of Shakespeare or 
Milton to tell about it. 



i^Y Saral)TLee 06eii6'l)al 

Teacher Second Primary Grade, Norfolk, Virginia 



'^^^HERE are no lessons taught, enjoyed or half so helpful as those 
4^ we get through the medium of a good story. 

Where will you find a man or woman too tired after a hard day's 
work to pore over the printed page on the home-bound car.^^ And where 
is the child who will not stop every other form of entertainment to come 
in and hear of the deeds and sayings of the Vv^onderful people grandma 
knows ? 

But, alas, many little boys and girls lack the kind grandma or even 
the mamma wno can or will tell the stories that make the blue eyes open 
and the little heart beat faster. And so it is left to the teacher to carry 
the gospel of brave deeds, kind w^ords and right living to the hungry little 
souls. 

The teacher who thinks that the story is just a good means of keeping 

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things quiet the last half hour of school or that such and such a selection 
must be told or read as required in the curriculum for the month, certainly 
loses his best" opportunity to sow the seeds that will bring forth a hundred- 
fold. 

Teachers like children get tired sometimes and so tell your story when 
you're feeling best. Acquire the story telling mood; but don't get in the 
same mood every day. One time have a rearing north wind story, the 
next time a gentle zephyr from the south, while still another time a gust 
from the east or a refreshing breeze from the west. 

Of course, we don't expect the children to remember every story ; but 
there are some which we want indelibly printed on their hearts and minds. 
This is best accomplished by reproduction and dramatization. 

In spite of the fact that many little girls and boys on entering school 
seem beyond the teachers' reach during the reproduction hour, still I believe 
that in time each child will take a lively interest in the story. Of course it 
takes patience, tact and sympathy on the part of the teacher, for it is for 
various reasons that the little one often finds it hard to reproduce the first 
story. 

In order to get good reproductions the story should be live, acting, 
short and told or read just as if everything were really happening at the 
time of the telling. The teacher who gets the best results enjoys the same 
old story, just as much at the fiftieth telling as he did the first time he told 
it. You can't fool the children. They know a good story and they know 
when it is told well. It doesn't make any difference how often they have 
heard it before provided a live person is telling the wonderful story in a 
wonderful way. 

In very large classes where it sometimes seems impossible to get one 
little boy or one little girl interested and anxious to participate in "the 
fun of telling back the story" a good deal of tact is required on the part of 
the teacher. 

I call to mind a little girl who sat during every story hour thoroughly 
interested, but the minute the reproduction began she seemed nervous and 
frightened. 

I knew she was not afraid of me for we had been good friends from 
the first day she entered my room. The children around her were not 
over critical and she stood well in her other work. I thought, I planned 
and one day a happy thought came to me — perhaps she's afraid of 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



her own voice — so I said, "How many children could whisper that story 
in my ear?" Hers was the first hand to go up and sure enough she told 
the whole story quickly and quietly. I let several other children do the 
same thing with results that delighted me. 

The next day I had my little backward girl first tell me and then tell 
another little pupil the story, and in two days more she told her first story 
to the whole class. In a month's time Corine could not only tell a story 
in a charming child's way, but she could also "act the story" with great 
delight to herself and the other scholars. 

There are many other cases that I could tell of and I trust this one 
will prove helpful to some teacher somewhere. 

I love the story and I love to tell it to the children; for where will you 
find a more appreciative audience.'' 



THE ART OF STORY TELLING 

The true art of telling stories consists in holding the attention of the 
listeners. Unless this can be done, it is better to keep silent, for one only 
becomes a bore. A storyteller must take genuine interest in his work and 
should thoroughly enjoy the companionship of his listeners; otherwise he 
will be a failure. He must also be imaginative, possess a sweet, flexible 
voice and be wholly in sympathy with his subject, which means, also, that 
he must be magnetic, impressive and forcible. The most successful story- 
tellers use the simplest language only, avoiding long words and meaningless 
descriptions. 

New York Graded Union Story Tellers' League will hold its first 
meeting for this season in the Parish House of the INIadison Avenue Baptist 
Church, 30 East 31st Street, New York, on Wednesday, Oct. 29th, at half- 
past three o'clock. The oSicers of the League are Miss Martha K. Lawson, 
President; Mrs. Adele Woodard, Chairman; Mrs. S. Schwenk, Secretary 
and Miss Alice Parsons, Treasurer. 



Detroit has 21 playgrounds, with six bath centers and four swimming 
centers, which are operated under the supervision of the Board of Education. 
Story Telling under the supervision of Miss Mercy J. Hayes is very popular 
with the children. 

245 



Trom tl)e !6ooK 51)^1 f 



"For the Story Teller." By Carolyn Sherwin Bailey. Price, $1.50. Milton Bradley 
Company, Springfield. Mass. 

The author views the question of story telling largely from the standpoint of a kinder- 
gartner, and her treatment of the subject seems more that of a preacher driving home a truth 
piecemeal, than a student of literature and writer who views life whole and complete. 

Starting with the "Apperceptive Basis," Miss Bailey studies the subject under the follow- 
ing heads: — ^"The Story with the sense appeal"; "tsing suspense to develop concentration"; 
"The story's use in memory training and for verbal expression"; "Stimulating the emotion and 
imagination"; a number of stories are given as examples. 

Miss Bailey says that in beginning a story, the story interest must begin with the first 
word, the first sentence, the first paragraph, if we would get the interest of young people. She 
gives the fallowing as an example of a story that will grip one from the start. "There /as once 
a little Indian boy who rode fifty miles on the cow-catcher of an engine" — an excellent point. 

We have not yet fathomed the great educational meaning of the story as a source of 
inspiration and as a vehicle for teaching plain common sense, to say nothing of its psycho-thera- 
peutic value and its psychological basis. 

Miss Bailey's book is valuable for its suggestions on the psychological side. It is well 
written and will be of special interest to kindergartners and parents with children of kinder- 
garten age. 

The Fair-? Ring. Price, $1.25 net. Golden Numbers. Price $2.00 net. Magic Case- 
ments. Price $1.50. Pinafore Palace. Price, $1.50. From the Children's Crimson 
Classics. Edited Vjy Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith. Doubleday, 
Page & Company, Garden City. 

These volumes have been prepared with unusual care and skill, the editors having spared 
no pains to gather from every known source the fine things of prose and verse which will lay 
sure foundation of literary appreciation in the young reader. "The Fairy Ring" is a collection 
of Fairy Stories; "Golden Numbers," a book of verse for youth; "Magic Casements," a fairy 
book for slightly older children; and "Pinafore Palace," a collection of the best short poems and 
nonsense verses. 

"On the fly-leaf of a copy of 'The Fairy Ring,' one of the Crimson Classics series, edited 
by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith, in the Buffalo Public Library, was found 
written: 'This is one of the best books ever written. Amen.' " 

Evenings With Grandpa. Parts I and II. Price, $0.50 and $0.55. 

Evenings With Grandma. Part II. Price, $.50. By John W. Davis. D. C. Heath & Co., 
Boston. 

These books cover a wide range of subjects, both ancient and modern. Folk 
lore, natural science, modern games, familiar songs, fairy stories, and all the 
various forms of entertainment, which interest children in the long winter evenings, 
are included in the author's programme. Anyone seeking a variety of material for 
the entertainment of young people will find it abundantly set forth in these books. 
A liberal sprinkling of reproductions of famous paintings, beside many other pictures, 
illustrate the books very acceptably. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Queen Magi's Little People. By Claude Wetmore. Price $1.00. The Con P. Curran 
Printing Co., St. Louis. 

This fairy story book, beautifully illustrated, will please the little people greatly. The 
stories were originally told to the author's own children and were chosen by the children them- 
selves from a large number as those which they desired "to hear over and over again." As a 
class these stories will be found to hold the child's interest yet not overstimulate the imagination. 
Many of the illustrations are photographic reproductions of the children themselves, who were 
highly delighted over the idea of playing fairies and illustrating their own book. 



Betty Tucker's Ambition. 
Co., Boston. 



By Angelina W. Wray. Price $1.00. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard 



A pleasant, wholesome story for girls from twelve to sixteen, teaching a lesson of courage, 
perseverance and good cheer, with some fun thrown in. 

Boys AND Girls. By James W. Foley. Price $1.35 net. E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. 

This is a collection of verses which challenges comparison with the poems of Eugene Field 
and James Whitcomb Riley. They seem to have that same insight into the heart of the child, 
and that same homely sympathy, which interprets the boys' point of view, without affectation and 
with a most natural touch of boyish mischief. The author is a native of St. Louis and for three 
years was on the Western frontier about the time of Theodore Roosevelt and Marquis de Mores. 
The poem of "The Ginger Cake Man," is very closely allied to the "Johnny Cake" story, with 
much of the same popularity which that story has with children. A number of illustrations, some 
fifteen in all, adds to the attractiveness of the text. 



48 games with illustrations. 
Price, $0.75. Ginn & Co., 



Swedish Song Games. By Valborg Kastman and Greta Kohler. 
Each game is accompanied by full descriptions for playing. 
New York. 

This collection of Swedish Song Games is particularly valuable in that the variety of 
type makes the book useful in many places. There are the highly dramatic games such as " Briar 
Rosebud" which appeal to the little child of the kindergarten and first grade. Then there are 
the more boisterous games as, "To the Woods ' or "Carousel," as many know it, which is so 
popular for older children in school or on the playgrounds. 



Folk Tales of East and West. 
& Co., Boston. 



By John Harrington Cox. Price, $1.00 net. Little, Brown, 



Professor Cox Avith painstaking scholarship has given us a readable collection of folk tales 
translated from original sources and adapted to the needs of young people from eleven to sixteen 
years of age. It is a collection of old folk tales — so old that they are new. 

The stories are derived from Sweden, Japan, the England of Chaucer, and earlier mediaeval 
Europe. While these stories are told simply and directly — so as to interest young people, the 
author has kept the atmosphere of the original — giving it a setting different from the usual class 
of folk tales and making it a book that the student of literature as well as the general reader 
will enjoy. 

The story of "The Old Iron Pot" from the Swedish is an unusually tellable tale, while 
"Rowena the Fair Saxon Maid" takes us back to Layamons Brut. 

247 



jFrom tl)e €6ltor'5 5tu6^ 



^K T THE close of a course in the University of Virginia 
^„^^ Summer School, a group of students said to the pro- 
fessor in education: 

"We heartily approve of your methods and your ideas 
of what to teach the young people and we should like to 
teach accordingly, but the course in our school is fixed by a 
superintendent, educated fifty years ago, who has never attended 
a teachers' meeting or a summer school. He was elected by a 
Board of Education, the members of which hold their position 
by political scheming, and some of them are reactionary and 
almost illiterate. We should like to change our school for the 
better, but must do as these men above us say or lose our posi- 
tion." This is oft times true in a community and to a greater 
or less extent in the State. 

Education has not made as much progress in the past fifty 
years as has the practice of medicine. It certainly has made 
some progress notwithstanding there are men on many Boards 
of Education, who went to school fifty years ago, and followed 
a course of study made out one hundred and fifty years ago — 
when education was only for the professional man and not for 
the masses. Yet these men, not aware of the great changes 
taking place to-day in our conception of the vital things in edu- 
cation, often dictate the policy to be followed in our schools. 
This is something like the members of a hospital board, who 
never studied medicine, dictating to physician or nurse the 
treatment the patients should receive in the hospital. 

The superintendent of one of our largest city school systems 
defines education as "the cultivation of moral character." 
But at the end of the school year, is the question ever asked — 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"How much moral character have you developed?" No, it is 
how much spelling did you teach, how much arithmetic, how 
much reading, how much grammar? Not one word is asked 
about moral character. Our definition of education is a long 
ways ahead of our practice. 

The average Board of Education will be content as long as 
the teachers deal with symbols, but as soon as they begin to 
break away from old forms and deal with vital problems, that 
affect the life of a community, making the school a center of 
social uplift, creative work and self expression, then will reac- 
tionary officials object. 

Great progress has been made in education in the past decade 
and we are on the verge of still greater changes. Education 
includes so much more to-day than it did even twenty years ago 
that school officials who direct the schools should themselves 
study educational work and keep up with the procession or 
give the teachers a freer hand. 

While many a teacher in her present position cannot change 
the course of study as she would like — changes must come 
slowly — yet she can help much to bring about a change for the 
better. This she can do by teaching the old subjects in a better 
way and in a new atmosphere, incidentally introducing subjects 
that are of vital importance to the children. 

One subject that perhaps more than any other can be 
introduced without inviting criticism, is story telling both as 
to subject matter and method. Through the centuries the story 
tellers' art has given us history, dramatics, music, language, 
literature and moral truths — and progressive teachers are to-day 
using the same method. Perhaps no subject outside of the 
teacher's personality can do so much toward creating a pure 
atmosphere as a good story charmingly told. 



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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Of all great factors in the education of young people story 
telling stands out as the most powerful and effective. This 
seems to be a strong statement and one likely to be challenged 
by the average person because of a limited conception of the 
story telling idea. The average person thinks of story telling 
as a simple and rather harmless method of keeping young people 
out of mischief; as having to do with gnomes and fairies, ghosts 
and bloody bones, hobgoblins and other favorite distractions 
in nursery education. 

The art of story telling is more or less closely related to 
almost every form of human activity. The history of the world 
as we know it to-day is a notable tribute to the genius of the 
story teller. The very word itself, — history — is eloquent of 
definition. The orator who makes the laws and directs the 
destinies of nations is by profession and circumstance a story 
teller. 

The old, old story of peace and good-will to men, of love 
and truth and duty is handed down from generation to genera- 
tion through the inspiration derived from the master story teller. 

Three-quarters of the edu(!l!^ion and the business of the 
world is conducted through the medium of the story, and the 
progress of the world is measured by the creative genius which 
presides over the diplomatic and legislative chamber; the edi- 
torial sanctum, the educational lyceum and the author's study. 

The education of the masses is achieved through two great 
constructive channels, — information and experience, — the latter 
being largely a product of the former. Now the conveying of 
information is but another name for story telling, since the 
more effective manner in which the information is imparted the 
more certainly it instructs and educates. The function of the 
story teller, therefore, is the function of the educator, whether 
it be in the forum, the pulpit, the market place or the home. 

250 



November 

Trees bare and brown. 

Dry leaves everywhere, 
Dancing up and down. 

Whirling through the air. 

Red-cheeked apples roasted, 

Popcorn almost done. 
Toes and chestnuts toasted, 

That's November fun. 

— Selected, 



251 




Cl^e Storytellers' 
^ iHagajine ^ 



VOLUME 1 NOVEMBER, 1913 NUMBER 5 



In the Tenements 
^p^veleeti IKarrisou 



"5T0RIES.PlCTURgKUSlC' 

EVERI THURSDAY AFTERNQDN 

All cKildrca wKo Iovg^ stories are invited 



'^^/''ENRIETTA grasped the blue ticket firmly in her hot little 

'I 1. ^^^^•^' ^^ ^^ raced home from school. All the boys and girls 

had them, and Teacher explained that they meant real 

fairy stories; with giants, and witches; dryads, and nymphs, princes, 

and princesses: — and best of all, every child in the school was invited. 

"Please Teacher, may I bring Sally? — and Joe, — and Rebecca — 
and Tim?" called out a chorus of shrill voices. 

"Yes, all children are invited, read it on your cards; you may 
bring every child in your block, as long as there is room." 

"It's this afternoon. Mother, and we'll have to hurry, and I can 
take Peter and Sally and Teddy!" gasped Henrietta, bursting into 
the kitchen, almost breathless after climbing to the fourth floor back. 

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"Whatever is the child saying!" exclaimed Mother Grady, as 
she dished out hot soup for the hungry troop. 

Henrietta held the blue ticket up between the soup kettle and 
her mother's eyes, while brother Jack pulled the remains of his out 
of a grimy pocket. 

"Sure there's nothing to pay?" the mother asked sharply. "Be- 
cause if there is, you stay at home." 

Henrietta vehemently shook her head as she gulped down hot 
soup in haste. "No, it's free. Teacher says so, and all the children can 
go, and I'll take Peter, and Sally and Teddy." 

"Aw, better leave the kids at home, they'll holler and make a 
fuss," broke in the wisdom of ten-year-old Jack. 

"I wants to hear stories. I'll be good," cried six-year-old Sally. 
"Me too," echoed Teddy, drumming on the table with his spoon; 
something interesting was going to take place, and he did not intend 
to be left out. 

"Well, it will be a God's mercy to get you all off my hands for 
one afternoon at least," the tired mother exclaimed — "and it will be 
thankful I'll be to know you are not in mischief." 

Such a long line of children, big and little, thin and fat, clean and 
dirty, stretching from the door of the settlement, right out to the 
sidewalk. 

Henrietta's thin, nervous little legs could not move fast enough 
down the street to suit her eager mind; encumbered as she was with 
Sally and Teddy dragging on either hand, and Peter holding to her 
skirt. 

Even the waiting time was full of interest; dozens of high, shrill 
voices talking at once, restless little bodies pushing back and forth. 

"Do you think she'll tell about fairies, and princesses?" a girl's 
voice inquired. "Naw! ther'll be giants and knights and lots of 
fighting!" — this from a big boy of eleven. 

"My, but I want to hear 'bout mermaids and birds and flowers," 
a wee maiden confided to her friend. 

"I'm most squeezed to death!" a pathetic little voice protested. 

"Never mind. Kid, you'll forget it the moment you are inside." 



'Ah 



!" a universal sigh of happiness as at last the door was 



flung wide open and the music of a popular march sounded, while the 

^4 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



children were invited into the big hall and greeted by the "Story 
Lady." 

She smiled down at Henrietta and her little brood. "Come 
up front, little girl, all the tiny ones we will place in the front row." 
And she lifted Teddy and Sally into the very first seats. 

Henrietta gazed around with delight, while Teddy was absorbed 
in deciding if he should cry at once, or wait a better opportunity; for 
such a lot of children, — in his limited experience, — he had never 
before seen. Girls and boys, but mostly boys; row after row, with 
bright eager eyes, and a babel of tongues. 

"Lady, he took my hat." "Lady, she has my place." "I've 
lost my school books." "I want my brother." 

The "Story Lady" passed from row to row, smoothing out the 
difficulties; then walked up to the platform and raised her hand for 
silence. The music stopped, and gradually the voices sank into 
whispers. 

"I cannot talk while you are whispering, so we will wait until 
you are quite ready to listen" — a long pause — then the "Story Lady" 
continued, "When I count six, let us see if we could hear a pin drop; 
one — two — three — four — five — six," and the silence might almost be 
felt. 

Then in a clear, carrying voice the "Story Lady" began in the 
magic words— "Once upon a time" — and for a whole wonderful hour 
the children went with her hand in hand, through the gate of imagina- 
tion, into the fairy-land of pure delight; where a merry company of 
fairies, dryads, nymphs, giants and elves, appeared to bid them 
welcome. 

Little groups of children — back from fairyland — sauntered slowly 
up the streets, and along the dingy avenues to their every-day homes; 
the wonders of the story hour filling their hearts. 

"Gee! but that knight was fine! think of his fighting the wicked 
old giant, and saving the little princess!" 

"I like the fellow best who was kind to the four big giants, and 
got them to help him look for the necklace." 

"And the man who cut stones by the road side, and tried being 
the king, and the sun and the cloud, and then found out that a man 
is the strongest thing in the world!" 

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"Did the horse truly pull the bell and call all the people?" 
Sally asked as Henrietta guided them home. 

"Of course he did, silly; horses have lots of sense," announced 
Peter with supreme contempt. 

"Which story did you like best.'*" Henrietta's chum asked her, 
"my favorite was the old Piper who let the dryad out of the tree, and 
she kissed him and his mother so that they became twenty years 
younger!" 

"Yes! that was fine," replied Henrietta, "but best of all I liked 
the little girl who carried the line of golden light around the world; — 
and didn't the 'Story Lady' look nice as she walked across the plat- 
form with the shiny golden cord trailing behind.? My! but that little 
girl did a lot for her blind sister;"! should just love to know her!" 

Henrietta's heart glowed and she held little sister's hand tight, 
with loving clasp, as they crossed the busy street. Somehow it was 
worth while to-day to have a little sister to care for, and she resolved 
to be very tender with her always. 

Mother Grady looked bright and rested, when the five children 
clattered up the stairs, and eagerly began telling the story of the 
story-hour. Even Teddy had been so interested that he had forgotten 
to cry. Each one had a special story to relate. 

Peter was enthralled with "Prince Haweda" and the opening 
of the walls crack by crack, to give him light; as soon as he forgot to 
think of himself. 

Jack proceeded to make a shield, and draw a star in the center, 
so that he could be one of the "Knights of the Silver Shield" — while 
Henrietta hunted up a piece of yellow cord, and announced a new 
game: "Just as soon as supper is over, I'm goin' to get the Blakes 
and the O'Higgins and the Bernsteins, and we'll tell all the stories 
over again. The Story Lady said that was the way to do, and I'm 
going to do it." 

An hour later, three mothers on the watch for missing children, 
and surprised at the unusual quiet of the tenement top floor, put their 
heads into Mrs. Grady's kitchen and were led by her on tiptoe into 
the sacred "front room." Henrietta, with far away eyes was walking 
up and down across one end, trailing a yellow cord, while a group of 
little people were listening to her story with gratifying attention; and 

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in the corner stood Jack with a large cardboard shield on his arm, 
impatiently waiting to do his tm-n. 

"Just look at the darlin's!" whispered Mrs. O'Higgins, "Sure 
an' it's foine it is that new story game. It larns them somethin' worth 
while, an' it's meself is plased that it be kapein' them out of 
mischief!" 

A new interest awaited the children one story-hour afternoon. 
When the "Story Lady" had counted up to six, and quiet reigned, 
she announced, "After I have told you some stories, we will act them 
out; I will call upon the boj^s and girls required." 

Henrietta, seated as usual in the front row, with her little brood 
around her, was rather puzzled; but her faith in the "Story Lady" 
was well established, and she felt sure it w^ould be something nice. 

And it was. 

The race between the hare and the tortoise was chosen first; 
two boys acted out the parts; while the "Story Lady" recited the 
tale; Great cheers greeted the tortoise, as he crawled to victory; 
and the children awoke to the fact that they had entered a new and 
fascinating pathway in the garden of fairyland. 

"The little bird with a broken wing," the "Three Goats, named 
Bruse;" and "The Sun and the Wind," followed; then "The Three 
Bears" was announced, and the "Story Lady" picked out Henrietta 
to play the part of Silver-hair. 

"I was so scared, I didn't believe I could move," she explained 
to her mother that evening; "but the 'Story Lady' comed right down 
from the platform, and took my hand and so I went, and my, but 
it was fun! Each bear had a bowl and a spoon, and a chair, all differ- 
ent sizes too; and they acted so funny, and made believe just fine, 
and then the 'Story Lady' changed her voice when she spoke, and 
I was most scared as she told it in the 'Big Bear Voice' as I tried his 
porridge, and his chair: — and oh! when I heard them bears coming 
nearer, and nearer, as I lay on the 'little wee bear's' bed, — and the 
'Big Bear Voice' said 'Somebody's been Tumbling My Bed' and the 
'Middle Sized Bear Voice' said — 'Somebody's been tumbling my 
bed,' and the 'Wee Bear Voice' said — 'somebody's been tumbling 
my bed, and she's there now' — I felt just as if real bears were stand- 
ing right beside me, and I ran and ran, and they all cheered." 

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il^Sliis^L 



The acting out of "Jack and the Bean-stalk" was, however, the 
triumph of the hour. So intense grew the excitement when the giant 
chased Jack, and he with wonderful skill, wielded an imaginary axe, 
and cut down an imaginary bean-stalk; and the giant took a real 
header over the platform! — that the audience lost control of them- 
selves, some of the children even springing up on the seats, and cheer- 
ing at the top of their voices. Even Teddy understood the escape 
of Jack, and waved his fat little legs in ecstasy. 

On the Thursday before Thanksgiving, Henrietta settled herself 
snugly in her seat, with the comfortable feeling that a good time was 
before her; for the "Story Lady" had declared the stories would all be 
about Thanksgiving. 

Into all the tales her happy little spirit entered, until they became 
part of her life. 

She rejoiced with the old couple "Baucis and Philemon," who 
after sharing their humble meal thankfully with the two strangers, 
received the reward of the two wishes; and thrilled with the spirit 
of brave courage, that helped the boys to frighten away the Indians 
by placing lighted pumpkin heads in the windows of the log cabin. 
She catered into the gale of laughter that passed over the audience 
when the fat "Princess Ariadne — Diana" rolled out on her rolling 
carpet; and the fat boy "Eneas," kicked the giant pumpkin head all 
over the field as a football, until it broke, and scattered showers of 
seeds, that came up next year into hundreds of yellow pumpkins to 
make pies at Thanksgiving. 

And how her little heart glowed with the story of the "First 
Thanksgiving" with the Indians as guests. 

All afternoon, Henrietta lived in an atmosphere of Thanksgiving, 
and on the way home discussed with her chum a plan to hold a Thanks- 
giving party for the poorer children in the tenement. 

The story hour? in December were given up to Christmas tales, 
until a real Christmas spirit filled the neighborhood; and every child 
looked forward to the Thursday before Christmas, for the "pictured" 
visit of Santa Claus. 

Coming out of school the day before the holidays, Henrietta saw 
a group of httle heads clustered around a big poster. Holly berries 

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framed In a jolly Santa Clans, stepping out of a chimney, while at- 
tached to his reindeer sleigh waved a banner with the words: 




"Oh, mother," she gasped, when the top of the home stairs was 
reached, "Us will have to go awful early to the stories to-morrow, for 
there's to be pictures, and all the boys and girls are wanting the front seats. ' ' 

Mother was sympathetic, and promised to go herself, to help 
care for the little ones. So it was well towards the head of the 
line — (this day double the usual length) — that Henrietta and her 
group moved into the hall, and gained their much coveted seats. 

Straight in front of them hung a large white sheet, and excited 
comments were to be heard on all sides. 

"Movin' pictures?" 

"Naw, just standing ones." 

"But they'll be all colored, and full of Santa Clans?" 

"Shall us see real people moving around?" Sally asked in a 
whisper. 

''Hush, here comes the 'Story Lady,' now you'll see." 

And they did. 

Right into Santa Clans' country, they walked that afternoon. 
Commencing with the old fashioned fairy tale, "The Sleeping Beauty," 
followed by nursery rhymes in pictures and story — they crept down 
the chimney with jolly St. Nick on "The Night Before Christmas"- — 
watched "Little Brother" "When the Chimes Rang," — as he laid his 
tiny offering on the altar, followed the children Christmas Eve into 
the forest of "The Great Walled Country" — galloped with the "Other 
Wise Man" across the desert in his search for the king, visited many 
homes in secret with "Santa Claus and his Brownies," sang the 
Christmas songs thrown on the screen between the stories, and at 
last went home, with the pictures of "The New Born King" fresh in 
their minds, and the story of the "Christ Child" in their hearts. 

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Henrietta was unusually quiet that evening while the other chil- 
dren told about the stories and pictures; but as she said good-night, 
her little arms went up around Mother's neck, and her voice whispered 
sortly, — "Seems as if my heart was so full of love that it is almost 
breaking in two, and I want to scream aloud with joy!" 

"The 'Story Lady' says it is the children's turn to tell stories to 
her, so next week she'll call us up on the platform to take her place," 
announced Henrietta one day in January to a group of girls during recess. 

"What kind of stories?" asked Gretchen. 

"Oh, all kinds," she said. "Plain stories, and stories in verse 
and a prize will be given the best boy and best girl story teller." 

"My, that's nice, I'm going to ask teacher what I can tell," said 
Jennie. " And I"— "And I"— "Let's all try for it," cried the other girls. 

"Amateur Day" was popular from the start. 

First ten girls were asked to volunteer, and Henrietta's heart 
went pit-a-pat as she responded. 

All week Gretchen and she had gone over and over the stories 
they had selected. 

Each girl made a funny little bow, and told her tale, announcing 
the name in a voice that varied according to the character of the child, 
hands shyly twisted in aprons or clutched in their gowns in despair. 
The "Story Lady" found it hard to keep a straight face, but they all 
did their best and the audience clapped approval as they used their 
privilege to point out the favorite story teller. 

Henrietta applauded with unselfish joy when Gretchen was 
elected to carry off the prize. 

The boys' stories were tragic and stirring, and rendered with 
good spirit, the prize going to a little lad of seven, who made up a 
thrilling tale from his lurid imagination. 

"It was lots of fun," the children decided, as they scattered to 
their homes, "But we like the 'Story Lady's' stories best." 

The whole of February, with the exception of Vale«itine's day, was 
treated as "Hero Month." Commencing with "Generals Gideon 
and Joshua," down through the Greek and Roman period, with their 
mighty men of valor, — the Charlemagne stories. King Arthur tales, 
right up to the national heroes of America. 

Another "picture day" was inserted between Lincoln's and 

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Washington's BirtlKlays,^and the cliildren relaxed the tension be- 
tween stories and made the room ring with patriotic songs. 

How they loved it all, — as they rode with Panl Revere and with 
Sheridan; marched with Sherman; and cheered Washington and 
Lincoln. The stereopticon helped greatly in the telling of these hero 
tales. 

Henrietta and her little brood were missing from one of these 
story hours, — their places taken by two Greek boys, "Apostolus" 
and "Socrates," who bore with solemn dignity the heavy weight of 
their renowned names! ("Apostolus" having been named after the 
whole twelve Apostles!) 

Word came that Henrietta was sick. "But I didn't mind the 
least little bit," she confided later to her chum, — "for the 'Story 
Lady' came one day and spent a whole hour telling me stories, just 
like she does at the Settlement, — only somehow they sounded so nice 
and homelike, and just as if they belonged to me alone! And then, 
she told me how to make up a story, and it took so much time, that 
I forgot to be lonely." 

So the Winter passed, and the singing of birds was at hand; 
and the "Story Lady" made up her programme about the flowers 
and the trees; the birds and the animals and all the wonderful outdoor 
things. The children loved "Epaminondas" and chuckled with glee 
at his "no sense" chirps, — and shut tight their eyes to see the flower 
sprites and the water sprites, who came from "The Brook in the 
King's Garden." "How the Persimmon Tree got its Fruit in Three 
Colors," — "Why the Pines have Needles," — "Where the Rose found 
her Thorns," — and "The Origin of the Tiger Lily and Elephant 
Canes." All carried home a nest of beautiful thoughts to the hearts 
of the little ones. 

"The Hunt for the Beautiful," sent them home with a longing 
to put their arms around "Mother." "Princess Meadow Larks" 
and "Prince Scarlet" revealed the secret of their success, and "The 
Knights of the Silver Shield" proved so popular that a club was formed, 
the members or knights to act as "Monitors" during the story-hour, 
decorated with a badge of honor in the form of a tiny silver shield. 

Thus through the happy Springtime the children danced up and 
down the pathways of fairyland; alive with flowers and birds, while 

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the wind fairies whispered many a wise secret in their hstening ears — 
and, the "Story Lady" loved it all! 

The search for stories that would suit the children, making up 
special programmes, holding the interest of the audience, while dozens 
of little eyes were fixed with close attention and confidence on her 
face — the perfect tribute of a silence that thrills when the story reaches 
its height, and then the creeping up of the little ones, closer and closer 
until they cuddled around her feet in the craving of childhood to be 
in touch with the speaker. The long drawn sighs of satisfaction 
when a favorite hero or heroine "ends happily ever after," and the 
eager requests, "Now tell it all over again," "Just one more story! 
Only One!" when the hour had drawn to a close. 

Beyond and above all this lies the knowledge that these stories 
penetrate like rays of light into the hearts of the children, whose 
outward lives too often are passed in shadow. That the "fairy lore" 
becomes part of their very being, — making them in turn capable, in 
the years to come, of answering the eager appeal (that will come to 
one and all, when a little head is pressed against one's breast), "Now 
tell me a story!" with the satisfying words of childhood — "Once 
upon a time " 



^l)e 4^5pcl)olo5^ of tl)e Stor^ 

Mr. Edward C. Wilson, a fellow at Clark University, Worcester, Mass., 
is writing his thesis on "The Psychology of the Story." In a topical 
syllabus he sends out the following interesting questions to those using the 
story, and asks for help. 

State age and sex. 

Will you give one, two or three of the stories that have been helpful to your life? If in 
a book give the point of the story. State the circimistances or occasion of use. 

Give any instances where a story has had a good influence over children, helping to correct 
bad habits or to form good habits or virtues. Explain circumstances and method of use. Give 
any stories so used. 

Can you give instances of the helpful influence of a story in school or in Sunday school? 
Explain the occasion of use and the result. What was the story? 

Have you ever known a case where a merry story helped a person when told in a sick 
room, or in cases of depression, fatigue, etc., and what was the change? Give any stories so used. 

Have you ever read or known of cases where a story has been used to help persons who 
were insane or were liable to become insane? What was the story? 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



O^e Sunshine JF(airie5 

{Adapted from an old Norse Legend) 

^r"^r^^ 5ttortoit 

(DOROTHY L. GRAVES) 

'^^fi[N the da^'s of "once upon a time" there were some little sunshine 

jM fairies who loved to dance and play in the sunshine all day 
among the birds and bees and flowers. They were merry little 
creatures, but were idle all the livelong day, except for the foolish, 
unkind tricks they played. 

Sometimes when a mother bird was flying to her nest with a nice, 
fat grub for her hungry babies, one of these naughty fairies would 
snatch it from her, and laugh to see her surprise. Or, perhaps they 
would close up the flower cups so that the honey bees could not reach 
the nectar inside. 

There were also some tiny dwarfs living in the woods and fields, 
and they were not only mischievous, but really wicked, for they spent 
their whole time in making the earth people unhappy. The sunshine 
fairies never helped them in their cruel work, but they were often 
with them for want of something better to do, and alas, they some- 
times laughed at their tricks! 

One day the king of all the fairies up in his palace in Cloudland, 
determined to stop this wicked work. 

"Go down to the earth," he said to a messenger, "and tell the 
sunshine fairies and the dwarfs that I wish to see them at once, on 
a matter of great importance." 

The little creatures were surprised and a little afraid when they 
received this message, but they knew they must obey. 

When they came into the beautiful hall before the king, he looked 
very angry, and spoke to them so sternly that the little sunshine 
fairies wept bitterly. 

"I have seen your cruel, wicked deeds," he said, turning to the 
dwarfs. "Instead of trying to make the world better and happier, 
you have done everything you could to add to its misery and sorrow. 
I have warned you often, but you have paid no heed to my words. 
Go! you are banished to the gold mines, there to labor until you have 

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learned to be kind." He waved his hand, and the cruel dwarfs went 
sadly away to the dark mines. 

Turning to the weeping sunshine fairies, he said: 

"What have you been doing down there on the earth .^ Have 
you helped the dwarfs in their cruel work.'*" 

"Oh, no! good king!" they all cried together. "We have never 
harmed any of the earth people." 

"Have you ever helped them.'^" 

They hung their heads. They never had! 

"But we are sorry we have teased them. If you will let us go 
back we will try to help them," they pleaded. 

"I will forgive you, and you may go back to the earth and live 
among the birds and bees and butterflies again. But you must help 
them every day in every way you can, for if you are idle again you 
will soon become as cruel as the dwarfs. I will send one of my mes- 
sengers with you to teach you what to do." 

All the little fairies cried, "Thank you, good king!" and gladly 
followed the messenger back to the earth. 

They tried very hard to learn, and soon they were able to do all 
the things the king's messenger tried to teach them. They helped 
the flowers bloom, and watched over them when they slept at night; 
they helped the buds throw off their winter coats, and change into 
leaves and blossoms. They helped the caterpillar to weave his 
cocoon, and change while he slept into a beautiful butterfly. 

They touched the ears of little children and wise older people, 
and gave them power to hear and love the songs of the birds and 
bees and brooks — all the sweet sounds about them. They touched 
their eyes and gave them power to see the beautiful things near them, 
so that they no longer sought for lovely things far away, while all 
about them were those that were even more lovely. The exquisite 
colors of the sunsets, the changing foliage of tha trees and hills, the 
creeping insects, the butterflies' wings, the blue sky, the shining stars, 
even the pebbles at their feet. 

All, all these things they did and many more beside, helping the 
earth people in every possible way, until by and by the little sunshine 
fairies became the very happiest fairies in all the world! 



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OocljlOieasKw, t^e Cittle Scarre6 

(5irl 

' ^J^^ THE olden time there was a large Indian village on the 
\m shore of a great lake. At one end of the village there lived 
^"^ an Indian with his three daughters. The mother was dead, 
and the two elder daughters did all the work of the wigwam. 

The youngest child was a timid, sickly little girl. Her sisters 
hated her and were very cruel to her. When her father was away 
on hunting trips, they would beat her and abuse her in every way 
they could think of. They would even burn her with hot ashes and 
fire brands. After a while the little girl became so covered with 
burns that they left scars all over her face and body; and her hair 
was. singed close to her skin. 

When her father returned from a hunting trip and saw her he said: 

"Why are you so burned and scarred.^" But she was so afraid 
of her sisters that she dared not tell him. 

"Oh, she is determined to play in the hot ashes," her cruel sisters 
said. "We cannot keep her away from them and so she is burned." 

After a while the cruel sisters began calling the little girl Oochi- 
geashc. Little Scarred Orie. And then all of the Indians about, even 
her father, called her Oochigeaskw. So this became her name — the 
only name she had — Little Scarred Oiie. She had no playmates — for 
who would want to play with such a scarred little creature.f^ 

Little Oochigeaskw was often very lonely. She would sit on the 
shore and look away across the water and long for her mother to come 
back to her. She knew that if only her mother were with her all 
would be changed. There would be no cruel sisters: there would be 
no scars and scores: people would not taunt her and point their fingers 
at her: she would not be lonely any more. 

But wish as much as she might the mother never came back to 
Oochigeaskw, for she was dead. 

Now, away at the other end of the village there lived a young 



By permission, copyright, 1913, by Sturgis & Walton Company. 

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Indian brave with his sister. This brave's name was Team* — moose; 
for his teomul — the one who guarded him and gave him magical power — 
was a moose. Team could make himself invisible to every one but 
his sister. And he knew that when there should be an Indian maiden 
who had the power to see him when he was invisible to other people, 
she would be the one meant for his wife. So he sent out word that 
whatever maiden should see him, her would he marry. 

Team was brave and handsome; he had the finest lodge in the 
village; he caught more game than any of the other Indians; so of 
course, every maiden longed to see him, and to be the fortunate 
one. 

They visited his lodge, sometimes going alone and sometimes in 
twos and threes. Team's sister would entertain them kindly, then 
towards sunset she would take them to the shore of the lake. When 
the sound of Team's paddle could be heard, the sister would ask: 

"Do you see my brother?" The girls would strain their eyes 
in the direction of the sound, but they could never see Team. Some- 
times one would think that she could make believe see him, and that 
they would not find out; so she would answer: 

"Yes, I see him." Then the sister would ask: 

"Of what is his shoulder strap made.^^" 

Now there were only two things the Indians used for shoulder 
straps. Usually they were made of rawhide, but sometimes they 
used a withe from an ash tree. The sister would then say, "Let us 
return to the lodge." 

So try as hard as they might they could not see the hunter. 

At last the little girl's two sisters thought that they would try 
their luck. They dressed themselves in their prettiest clothes; they 
made long braids of their hair and wound them with strings of bright 
little shells; and then they set off for the lodge of Team. But they 
fared no better than the others, although the eldest sister said that 
she could see Team. 

"Of what is his shoulder strap made.f^" Team's sister quickly 
asked her. 

"Of rawhide," she answered. 

When the three returned to the lodge, the two girls stayed and 



*Pronounced in two syllables, Te-am. 



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helped prepare the evening meal, for they thought, "We can surely 
see him when he is eating." 

But, although they heard the sound of the game dropped to the 
ground outside the door, and although they could see his moccasins 
as soon as his sister touched them, they could not see Team. When he 
ate, as soon as he touched the food, it became invisible. 

The maidens stayed all night with Team's sister, and then in the 
morning they returned to their wigwam, cross and disappointed, to 
vent their anger upon the little scarred girl. They found that their 
father had reached home while they were away, and that he had 
brought a great store of shells. So they began stringing the wampum. 

Oochigeaskw knew that her sisters had been to Team's lodge, 
and she thought : 

"Perhaps I could see him. Perhaps I could see Team, and then 
I should not have to live here with my cruel sisters." 

Then she remembered that she had no clothing — she was in rags. 
What should she do! She saw a birch tree in its beautiful white cover- 
ing and she said : 

"I'll make a garment of that." 

So she made herself a skirt and jacket of the birch bark. She 
found a pair of old moccasins her father had thrown away, and she 
soaked them in water and tried to make them fit her feet. But they 
were so large that they reached to her knees. 

Then Oochigeaskw went to her sisters, busy with the bright little 
shells, and she said: 

"Oh, give me some of the pretty shells." 

But they sneered at her and sent her away. Again and again 
she went to them, begging: 

"Do give me some of the pretty little shells! Do give me some 
of the pretty little shells!" 

At last they gave her a few, such pretty ones; yellow and blue 
and green and white! 

Oochigeaskw trimmed the moccasins and skirt and coat with the 
shells, and then she wound strings of them about her head. She had 
no beautiful braids to be adorned with them, and she was so ashamed. 
But she started out bravely in search of Team, the wonderful hunter. 

When her sisters saw her going away they cried: 

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"Wlicre are you going? Come back, you little scarred one!" 

But Oochigeaskw was afraid of them no longer. 

"I will not go back to you, and I am going to the lodge of Team," 
she called out. 

As she passed through the village, the children threw stones at 
her, shouting: 

Oochigeaskw, Oochigeaskw ! Go Back ! Go back ! ' ' 

Some of the stones struck her and hurt her, but she kept on. 
Even the men and women laughed at her, pointing at her and calling 

"Oochigeaskw! Oh, Oochigeaskw, little scarred one! Go back! 
Go back! 

But, at last Oochigeaskw reached the lodge of Team. The sister 
greeted her kindly, and at sunset the two went down to the shore. 
Away in the distance sounded the faint dip, dip of a paddle. The 
two maidens stood with their hands shading their eyes, looking in the 
direction from which the sound came. At last the sister said: 

"Do you see my brother.'*" 

Oochigeaskw looked eagerly up the lake. 

"Yes! I see himV she said at length. 

"Of what is his shoulder strap made?" the sister asked. 

"Why, it is made of a rainbow!'' she cried. 

"Ah, you have seen my brother! Now let us hasten to the lodge, 
that I may prepare you to meet him when he comes." 

The two maidens hurried to the lodge, and the sister opened a 
large chest full of the most beautiful clothing Oochigeaskw had ever 
seen. Then the sister prepared to bathe her; and Oochigeaskw hung 
her head for shame because of her scars and burns. But, as soon as 
the water touched her — such a wonderful thing happened ! The scarred 
and burned flesh disappeared, and beautiful fresh skin appeared in 
its place. 

Then the sister began arranging her hair. When Oochigeaskw 
thought of her scorched stubby hair she felt like crying, for every 
Indian bride prides herself upon her long braids of hair; and Oochi- 
geaskw's hair was burned close to her skin. When the sister began 
to brush it, there came fine beautiful, glossy black hair from under the 
brush, and soon the long braids were bound with the strings of bright 
shells, and Oochigeaskw was arrayed in her wedding garments. Then 

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the sister placed her in the wife's place next to the door and the two 
waited for the coming of Team. 

At last they heard the game as it fell to the ground outside the 
wigwam door. The skins at the doorway were drawn aside, and 
Team stood there. He looked at Oochigeaskw in her wedding gar- 
ments, waiting for him in the wife's seat— and he smiled down at her. 

"At last we have met," he said to her. 

Oochigeaskw looked up at Team and answered : 

"Yes." 

And so they were married. And Oochigeaskw's days of sorrow 
and loneliness were brought to an end. 

And kespeadooksit — the story ends. 

The above story is from Glooscap, the great chief, and other stories: Legends of the 
Micmacs. By Emelyn Newcomb Partridge, Sturgis and Walton, New York, pubUshers. 

At Harrisburg, Pa., Thursday, Nov. 13th a new Story Tellers' League 
was established through the activity of Miss Lois K. Booker, of that city. 
The membership numbers some twenty-two enthusiastic story tellers and 
the League bids fair to become an active one. The officers are Miss Lois 
K. Booker, President, Miss Margaret Latham, Corresponding Secretary. 

The Cincinnati, Ohio, Story Tellers' League held the first meeting of 
the season of 1913-14 at the Public Library last month. The new officers, 
Mr. Arthur James Kinsella, President, and Rev. Lester Reilly, secretary, 
are fine story tellers and under their guidance a successful and enjoyable 
season is assured to the League. 



Miss Alice Adele Folger, of Cincinnati, Ohio, one of the leading story 
tellers in the Middle West, will deliver a course of twenty lectures on Colon- 
ial History before the Cincinnati Chapter of Colonial Dames during the 
current season. The place of meeting will be in the public schools' Besides 
these appearances. Miss Folger will address the Women's Clubs of West- 
wood, Wyoming and Madisonville. 

The true purpose of education is to cherish and unfold the seed of 
immortality already sown within us; to develop, to their fullest extent, the 
capacities of every kind with which the God who made us has endowed 
us. Mrs. Jameson. 

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"TLlttU :^of "Entreats tl)e Storyteller 

In Memory of Joel Chandler Harris 

Upon a grave in Dixie, again the rose-leaves drop. 
Anear, meek tooodland creatures the Southern grasses crop. 
But there's a Little Boy, who pleads with wistful tone, — 
''Come back, dear Uncle Remus, I'm lonesome when you re gone! 

*'Thes tell me 'bout Brer Rabbit out in the brier patch. 
And then the 'tudder creeturs sly Brer Fox couldnt match. 
But dont leave out Tar Baby, nor Mister Possum's plight. 
I'll sit still as a mousey, to hear the Tale tonight. 

''Make Daddy Jake and Aaron steal up from wild-woods damp. 
Where Willis-whistlers warn 'em when white folks raid the swamp. 
And Mr. Thimble-finger, out from his elfy home. 
Then Mingo, and — 0, shan't we have Sweetest Susan come? 



The cabin room is empty, the lightwood fire burns dim. 

Ah, Little Boy, or far or near, shed not your tears for him! 

The Big House, up the Star-path, — he bideth there for aye: 

None such, who feed the Master's lambs, can miss the Golden Way. 

Leonora Beck Ellis. 



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Obe 016 Iron l^ot 

^^ 3ol)it 11 dox 

ONCE upon a time in the far-off Northland, there Hved a 
certain rich man. He had thousands of acres of farm lands, 
vast forests, great herds of cattle and swine, immense barns, 
and a large beautiful house to live in. But the poor people who 
belonged to his estate and did his work were paid such small wages 
that they had much ado to get a living. 

Among those who were bound to this rich man for life, were an 
old man and his old wife. While they were young and strong they 
had been able to save a little money, but age crept upon them, they 
were forced to sell what they had until nothing was left to sell except 
one fine milch cow. From the milk she gave them they made butter 
and cheese, and so they were able to manage a little while longer. 
But they kept growing poorer and poorer, until one morning the old 
wife said to her husband, "Well, father, we have scarcely anything 
left in the house to eat and I don't see how we are to get along unless 
we sell the cow." 

The old man thought over the matter for a long time and then he 
said, "I think you are right, mother; we'll have to sell the cow." 

They got up very early the next morning, and after breakfast 
they went to the shed where they kept the cow, and the husband 
untied and led her out. The wife said, "That's a very fine cow; now, 
don't you sell her unless you get a good sum for her. I think she is 
worth eighty dollars." 

The man promised, and then started on his journey, leading the 
cow. But the market was a long way off and it was the middle of 
the afternoon before he came in sight of the town. Just as he did so, 
he was met by a stranger, who stopped him and asked him where 
he was going with the cow. 

The old man said, "To the market to sell her." 

"How much do you expect to get for her?" asked the stranger. 

"Seeing that she is an unusually fine cow, I think she is worth 
eighty dollars." 



Copyright, 1912, by Little, Brown & Company. 

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"Well, I haven't eighty dollars, but I have something that is 
worth eighty dollars, which I will give you for her." 

At this the stranger unbuttoned his coat and took out a little, 
old iron pot with three short legs and a big round bail. The old man 
looked at it for a minute and said, "You don't think I am so foolish 
as to give you my cow for that old iron pot!" 

Just then the pot spoke up: "Take me! Take me!" 

"Well!" thought the man, "if the old iron pot can talk like that, 
I'd better take it." 

Giving the stranger the cow, he took the old iron pot and started 
for home. It grew dark long before he arrived and as he drew near 
he walked more slowly, for he remembered that his wife had told 
him to bring home a good sum of money for the cow, and he wondered 
what she might say about his bargain. So he took the old pot to the 
cow shed and set it down in the stall where the cow used to stand, and 
taking a rope he tied one end of it to the bail of the pot and the other 
to the manger. Then he went into the house. His wife got him some 
supper and after he had eaten it and she had cleared away the dishes, 
she said: "Well, father, did you get rid of the cow?" 

"Y-e-e-s, I got rid of her." 

"Did you get a good price for her.'^" 

The old man hardly knew what to say, but after thinking for a 
a moment, replied, "Y'ou come with me out to the cow-shed, and 
I'll show what I got." 

They lit the lantern and he took her into that part of the shed 
where the cow's head was usually fastened, and holding the lantern 
up high, told her to look into the stall. At first she could see nothing, 
but when her eyes became accustomed to the dusk of the place, she 
saw the little old iron pot with its bail fastened by a rope to the manger. 
When she fully realized what it was, she turned to her husband. "Do 
you mean to tell me that's what you got for our cow.^^" 

"Yes," answered he, "that's what I got for her." 

"Well! Y^ou are more foolish than I thought you were." 

Just then the old pot said: "Take me into the house and scour 
me up bright and put me on the fire!" 

"My!" exclaimed the old woman, "If that old pot can talk, I 
think we had better do as it asks." 

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So they took the pot into the house, and the next morning the 
old wife got out her seouring sand and made the old iron look like 
burnished steel. She put it on the fire, and as soon as it began to get 
hot, the pot spoke up; "I skip! I skip!" 

"Where do you skip?" cried out the old woman. 

"Oh, I skip to the house of the rich man!" And, giving a big 
jump, the old iron pot went out through the window, and those little 
short legs went tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, down the hard road. In a 
minute it was at the house of the rich man, and without delay, jumped 
right through the window and landed upon the table. 

That morning, the rich man's wife was making a fine pudding 
and she had around her all the things that were to go into it; sugar, 
and flour, and butter, and raisins, and suet, — oh, just everything that 
goes to make a fine pudding. Lifting her eyes suddenly from her 
work, she saw the old iron pot, and called out: 

"Look here, husband, at this old iron pot, and see how bright 
and clean it is! Why, this is just the thing to put my pudding into!" 
And so she went on mixing her pudding. When she had finished she 
lifted it up and put it into the old iron pot. As soon as she had it 
all in, the old pot cried out, "I skip! I skip!" 

"Well! where do you skip.'*" asked the rich w^oman, in astonish- 
ment. 

"Oh, I skip to the house of the poor man!" And at one leap, 
it landed out in the middle of the road; then those little, short legs 
went tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, and in a moment it was back at the house 
of the poor man. The old wife, busy about her work, heard a racket 
behind her, and looking around, beheld the old iron pot standing on 
the kitchen table. When she saw what was in it, she called to her 
husband: "Look here, father! The old pot has come back, and see 
what a fine pudding it has brought us!" Then she set the pot over 
the fire, and they had the finest pudding they ever ate. It lasted two 
or three days. 

When they had finished the pudding the old wife scoured up the 
pot again until it looked like burnished steel, and put it on the fire. 
As soon as it began to get hot it spoke up: "I skip! I skip again!" 

"Dear me! where do you skip this time?" asked the old woman. 

"Oh, I skip to the barn of the rich man!" 

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Then it jumped out into the middle of the road, and those Httle 
short legs went tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, until it reached the barn of the 
rich man, and stopped in one corner of the big floor. That morning 
the rich man's servants were threshing out his wheat with flails, when 
one of them looking up from his work, spied the old iron pot. 

"Hello, fellows!" he shouted, "Look at this old iron pot! I 
wonder how it got here ! Well no matter how it came, it is a good thing 
to put some of this wheat into." 

So, when the men had the wheat all threshed out they took 
their shovels and began to put it into the pot. But the pot did not 
get full and they kept on shoveling until they had used up all the 
wheat of the rich man. As soon as it was all in, the old pot cried: 
"I skip, I skip again!" 

"Oh! where do you skip.'*" asked the men. 

"I skip to the house of the poor man!" 

At once the little, short legs began to tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, 
over the barn floor, out through the open doors and down the hard 
frozen road. "Catch it!" cried the men one to another, running 
after it in great haste. But no one could catch it, and in a moment 
the pot was out of sight, and back at the house of the poor man. 

The old husband, bending over the fire, heard a noise. Raising 
his head, he saw the iron pot in the middle of the room. "Look 
here, mother!" he called, "the. old pot has come back; and see, it 
is filled with fine, yellow wheat!" 

They began to take the wheat from the pot. No matter how 
much they took out, the pot seemed to be as full as ever; they kept 
on until the whole room was nearly filled before the pot was empty. 
They had enough to make them bread for eight or ten years. 

The next morning as the old couple were sitting before the 
kitchen fire after the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, the 
iron pot suddenly spoke: "I skip, I skip again!" 

"Well, where can you skip to this time?" they asked. 

"Oh, I skip to the house of the rich man!" Then those little 
short legs went tap, tap, t ip, tap, tap, down the road, and in a minute 
the pot was standing on a table, by a window, in the rich man's 
house. That morning the rich man was counting his treasure and 
he had it all spread out on the table lef ore him: Piles of yellow 

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gold, and great heaps of white silver, and bags and bags of small 
coins. The old rich man looked up from his counting, saw the iron 
pot at his elbow, and said, "Hello! what a fine thing to hold my 
money." And so, lifting it all up, he put it into the pot. 

"I skip! I skip again!" cried the pot, and without waiting to 
answer the rich man's cry of alarm, it gave a big jump into the middle 
of the road, and the little short legs went taj), tap, tap, tap, tap, until 
it was back in the kitchen of the poor man. As it tumbled on the 
floor, it scattered the money in all directions, which the old husband 
and wife gathered up and hid away for safe keeping. They had enough 
money to last them as long as they lived. 

A few days later, while the old couple were rubbing up the pot 
and talking of the good fortune it had brought them, suddenly it 
cried out, 'T skip! I skip again!" 

"What!" said the old woman and the old man, "skipping again! 
Where can it be this time?" 

- "Oh, to the house of the rich man!" And tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, 
went the little short legs over the frozen road and right into the 
parlor of the rich man's house. As soon as he saw the pot standing 
there, the man called, "Mother! come here! See this old iron pot 
that stole jour pudding, and my wheat, and all our money! Now 
let us make sure it does not get away this time!" Then he gave a 
big jump and fell upon the old pot in the middle of the floor. 

As soon as the pot felt the rich man's arms around it, it began 
to wiggle. The big bail slowly crept over the rich man's head, and 
down under one arm, and then the pot cried out, "I skip! I skip 
again!" and away it went dragging the old man down the middle 
of the road. The poor old husband and wife heard the tap, tap, 
tap, tap, tap of the little, short legs as they were passing the cottage, 
and looking out, saw the pot carrying the old rich man away. " What 
are you going to do with him?" they shouted. 

"I am going to take him to the North Pole." And away it 
went over the ice and snow, out of sight into the frozen north. 

From that day to this, nothing has been heard of the rich man, 
nor has anything been seen of the old iron pot. 



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JF;=C5!! 



Ol)e tJlliracle of Cove 

How the Great Dipper Came to he Set in the Sky 

!^p Uola <Bertru6e 'Waller 

"^jf^ ONG years ago there was a country in which no rain had 
jl fallen for many months. All the flowers had died, the grass 
had dried up, the little birds were silent in the parched trees, 
and all through the great land the people were dying of thirst. 

One hot night a little girl who lived in a cottage near a big woods, 
in which she loved to play, stole quietly out of her house, feeling very 
sad, not only because her thirst was very great, but because the dear 
mother lay sick and dying, just from the need of a drink of pure spark- 
ling water. The little girl carried a dipper in her hand and when 
she reached the cool depths of the woods she knelt down and asked 
God to please fill her dipper with water so that the dear mother might 
get well again. She was very weak and tired herself, and so fell asleep 
even while she was praying. 

When she woke up she found that her dipper was full to the very 
brim with sparkling water. Up she jumped in great haste and without 
so much as touching her own parched lips to the water, hurried toward 
her home. As she ran along she stumbled and dropped the precious 
dipper, and when she leaned over with a sob to pick it up, she found 
not only that not one drop was spilled, but that a forlorn little dog 
was eagerly lapping at the cool water. 

She did not drive it away, but waited till refreshed and happy, the 
little creature bounded away; then, picking up the dipper she saw to 
her great surprise not alone that it was as full as when she first saw 
it, but that it had been changed into gleaming silver. 

On she ran, now very happy, to the mother's bedside and offered 
the brimming dipper to her. 

The mother lifted the dipper to her lips and then before she had 
even tasted it, said, "No dear; you take it — it will cure me to just 
watch you take a long cool drink." As the mother passed the dipper 

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to her child, the burnished silver changed into gleaming gold, and it 
was, indeed, a precious cup the little girl lifted to her own lips. 

Just as she was about to drink, the nurse who had cared for her 
mother so faithfully through many long days came into the room and 
the little girl, forgetting her own need, ran eagerly to her and putting 
the golden dipper into her hand, said, "Take it, dear nurse, and have 
a long cool drink. It will refresh you greatly." 

The nurse took the golden dipper and saw in the handle a wonder- 
ful gleaming jewel that sparkled even more brilliantly than the water 
itself. 

She was just about to dip out a little water for each person in 
the house when a stranger, wan and weary, came to the open door. 
So faint did he look that, in a burst of tender sj'mpathy, the woman 
handed to him the overflowing dipper. He took the precious cup 
and said, "Blessed is he who gives even a cup of cold water in my 
name." A golden glory, brighter than the radiant moonlight, shone 
all about him and the golden dipper in his hand was studded now with 
seven brilliant gems, each like a clear drop of water. 

The water bubbled up in the cup and overflowed upon the ground 
and as the stranger disappeared a fountain of water sprang up in the 
very spot on which he had stood, whose blessed water ran off in a 
shining river which refreshed the whole thirsty land. 

The seven jewels floated above and aroimd the golden dipper 
for a few moments, and then, rising above the fountain still keeping 
the form of the dipper, rose ever higher and higher until they reached 
the moonlit sky and there they have stayed ever since, and you can 
see them yourself any clear night in the form of the "Great Dipper" 
ever teaching a lesson of love and unselfishness. 



The Story Tellers' League of Nashville, Tenn., met on November 1st, 
when the election of officers took place with the following result: Mrs. 
Charles Baker, President; Dr. W. J. Morrison, First Vice-President; Mrs. 
H. Anderson, Second Vice-President; Mrs. Robert Nichol, Recording 
Secretary, and Miss Cornelia Barksdale, Treasurer and Corresponding 
Secretary. 

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A Korean Folk-Lore Tale 

For this story I am indebted to Mary Owens, the young daughter of missionaries of 
Kwang Ju, Korea. It was my happy fortune to become acquainted with Mary, her three 
Httle sisters, and her mother last summer. They have returned to the land where little girls 
wear rainbow-colored sleeves and their mothers dress all in white. — The Author. 



'"^^^ HERE was once a rich man who wanted a pair of new shoes.* 
^^ He went to a shoemaker, gave him exact directions and asked 
^^^ that the shoes he finished by a certain date. 

The shoemaker promised to have them ready, but when the rich 
man came for his shoes at the appointed time, not a single stitch had 
been taken in them. 

The rich man was angry, but another date was set and again 
he called for his shoes and again he was disappointed. 

The third time he came for his shoes, the shoemaker said, "I have 
had so many orders that it has been impossible for me to make your 
shoes." 

At this the rich man was very angry, but finally left the shop 
after the shoemaker had promised to have the shoes the next time he 
called. But when he came the foiu'th time for his shoes the shoemaker 
had moved. At last the rich man found him. And now he was very 
angry indeed when the shoemaker said, "Your shoes are not ready 

yet." 

Once more he came for his shoes and this time the shoemaker 
was dead. 

In a few days the rich man also died. But he is still angry with 
the shoemaker — and still quarreling with him about the shoes which 
never were made, for the shoemaker turned into a dog and the rich 
man became a cat. And now you know why the cat is always spitting 
at the dog. 



*Korean shoes are made of straw and of silk. The rich man, of course ordered silk shoes. 

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Ol)e Stor^ of 3iln3 ^rtl)ur 

{In Twelve Numbers) 

i^p Winona (T. Mlartin 



IV. The Adventures of Gareth the Kitchen Knave 



44 



^^^^OTHER, when will you let nie go to King Arthur's court? 
^ww Queen Bellicent, the wife of King Lot of Orkney, raised 
her troubled eyes to meet the pleading gaze of her youngest 
son, Gareth. 

"O Gareth, Gareth," she replied in a voice from which tears 
were not far distant, *'you are still a child; and have you no pity 
for my loneliness? Both your brothers are in Arthur's halls, unless 
one, or both, of them is at this very moment lying dead pierced by 
a dozen wounds. You do not know what it means to be a knight 
and daily risk your life in brain-stunning shocks and tourney-falls." 

"Ah! Mother, Mother," cried the young man with kindling 
eyes. "It is for that very reason that I long to go!" 

"No, no, my son," and Bellicent shook her head sadly, "stay 
a while longer. Follow the deer in your own father's forests, and 
so make your manhood mightier day by day." 

"Follow the deer! Mother, I must follow the Christ and the 
King, or else why was I born? Mother, what can I do to prove to 
you that I am no longer a child but a man, ready to take a man's 
part in life?" 

"Do? Well what would you do to prove it — you who have 
never felt a finger-ache or a pain?" 

"Do? Ah! Mother, I would walk through fire." 

"You would walk through fire, you say?" and Bellicent smiled 
a strange smile. "In that case you surely would not mind a little 
smoke?" 

"A little smoke? Ah! surely not, Mother," exclaimed the boy 
in surprise. 

"Then I will let you go — " 

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"Truly, Mother?" 

"On one condition — " 

"Yes, anything, anything, only — " 

"Then listen carefully," said Queen Bellicent slowly. "You may 
go if you will go disguised, and hire yourself out to serve meats and 
drinks for a year and a day among Arthur's scullions and kitchen 
knaves." 

Having said this, the Queen smiled to herself for she believed 
that her princely son was far too proud to submit himself to so 
humiliating a test. 

The boy was silent for a while, then he replied gravely: 

"Even though my body were in bondage. Mother, I should still 
be free in soul; and I should see the jousts and hear the talk of the 
brave knights, and see the face of the King now and then. Yes, 
Mother, I will do as you say." 

Then Bellicent realized that her son was in earnest indeed, and 
she made no more attempt to prevent his going. 

One morning a few days later, therefore, while the anxious mother 
was still asleep, Gareth quietly arose, and taking with him two faith- 
ful serving men who had waited on him since his birth, set out for 
Camelot. 

The three, dressed like tillers of the soil, journeyed southward 
for two days until one fair morning they saw the spires and turrets 
of the mystic city pricking through the mist. Presently they came 
to the wonderful gate upon whose keystone stood an image of the 
Lady of the Lake who had given Excalibur to Arthur. Her gar- 
ments seemed to be weeping from her sides like water flowing away, 
and in the space to left and right of her the young King's wars were 
shown in weird devices. 

Gareth and his companions stood staring at this curious gate 
so long that at last it seemed to them that the pictured dragons upon 
it began to move and seethe and twine and curl as if the whole portal 
were alive, while from within came a sound of weird music, so that 
the two serving-men would gladly have turned back fearing enchant- 
ment, but Gareth pressed right on until he stood in the long vaulted 
hall of the royal palace itself where the King sat upon his throne 
delivering judgment. 

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While Gareth waited he saw one person after another having a 
complaint to make or a boon to ask brought before Arthur who, 
after listening carefully to the story, would assign the righting of the 
wrong — if such he deemed it to be — to one of the tall knights that 




*Deer in Forest, Courbet. 



"FOLLOW THE DEER"* 



[Courtesy Braun et Cie.] 



ranged themselves about his throne; so that every now and then one 
of these would ride away upon his appointed quest. 

At last it came Gareth's turn to make his plea. Stepping for- 
ward, therefore, leaning upon the shoulders of his two servitors as 
if needing support, he approached and said: "A boon, Sir King!" 
Then as Arthur bent forward graciously to listen: 
"Grant that I may serve among your kitchen knaves for a year 

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and a day. Then, having grown strong with meats and drinks from 
your table, I shall be able to fight." 

The King looked at the boy in surprise, for neither his face nor 
his stalwart young body showed any signs of weakness or starvation. 
Presently he said: 

"You appear to be a goodly youth, and worth a goodlier boon. 
Still, as this is what you ask, let it be so. I therefore hand you over 
to the care of my Seneschal, Sir Kay." 

Gareth turned and looked into the eyes of the man who was 
henceforth to be his master, and certainly the sight was not at all 
reassuring for Kay was the surliest and most unpleasant looking of 
all the knights at Arthur's court. 

"Humph!" he now said crossly. "A good-for-nothing fellow, no 
doubt, who has run away from some abbey where he was too lazy 
to earn his food. But he shall work now. I'll see to that, never fear ! " 

It chanced, however, that Launcelot, the most illustrious of 
all the knights, and Arthur's dearest friend, was standing by and 
overheard Kay's remark. 

"Kay, Kay," he said, after having taken a good look at the lad. 
"You may know a great deal about dogs and horses, but not much, 
I fear about men. I advise you to treat that boy kindly, for if he 
is not noble natured I am much mistaken, and you may some day 
discover that he is also of noble blood." 

*'Tut," replied Kay scornfully. "If he were noble would he not 
have asked the King for horse and armor instead of food and drink. 
Yes, I see that his brow is smooth and his hand white, but I will 
soon alter that when I get him among the pots and pans." Then 
turning to Gareth: 

"Come along. Sir Fair-hands. Come along with me." 

So Gareth passed with Sir Kay from the bright glory of Arthur's 
hall down into the smut and grime of the kitchens where he submitted 
day after day to being hustled and harried by a master who had no 
love for him. Thus the first long month of his servitude wore away, 
then one day when the lad was scrubbing away as usual at his pots 
and pans, seeing how brilliantly he could make them shine, and pre- 
tending to himself that he was burnishing his armor. Sir Kay strode 
into the room and said gruflSy: 



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"Ho, ho, Sir Fair-hands, we shall see what is about to happen to 
you now! The King himself has sent for you, doubtless to reprimand 
you for some villainly which you have succeeded in concealing even 
from me. Go along at once." 

Now, though Gareth's conscience was clear, he could not help 
being seriously disturbed by this unexpected summons; when, there- 
fore, having hastily washed off the grime and made himself as present- 
able as possible, he found himself once again in the presence of the 
great King, he was much surprised to read in Arthur's smiling coun- 
tenance no sign of anger or disapproval. 

"Gareth," said he when the two were alone. "I know your 
secret. Your mother has repented of the hard promise she made 
you give. She has, therefore, sent me a message explaining all and 
releasing you. A man is sometimes knighted, Gareth, on the field 
of battle for some deed of special bravery. I am about to knight 
you now, my boy, for the same reason." 

■ "But, my Lord, cried Gareth in astonishment, "I have as yet 
done no brave deed!" 

"That is a question of which I will be the judge," replied Arthur 
gravely. "A man on the battlefield or in the tourney has the encour- 
agement of the plaudits of his fellows, and is spurred on by excitement 
and the hope of winning glory, but you have toiled nobly in humilia- 
tion and obscurity. Therefore kneel, Gareth, and receive the order of 
knighthood." 

At these words of praise from the lips of him whom the lad hon- 
ored as he honored no other human being, Gareth's eyes filled with 
tears and he knelt humbly to take those vows "as is a shame a man 
should not be bound by, yet the which no man can keep;" then the 
King gave him three strokes with the flat of his sword, and Gareth 
arose — a kitchen knave no longer. 

"Now," said Arthur, still smiling, "is there another boon that I 
can grant you, SIR Gareth.''" 

The lad pondered for a while, then he said : 

"I am now a knight. Sir King, but I am not yet proven. Grant, 
therefor that I may wear my diguise a while longer, and give me the 
next quest. So shall I spring like flame from ashes." 

"I will grant that boon," replied the King gravely, "on condition 

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that my friend Sir Launcelot may share the secret." 

To this Gareth agreed readily enough; so he returned to the 
kitchen to await impatiently the King's next audience day. And he 
had not long to wait for Arthur held himself ready whenever possible 
to hear the complaints of his subjects. 

It happened, therefore, one fine morning in early summer that 
a maiden of haughty bearing and high lineage passed into Arthur's hall, 
and, scarcely waiting to do obeisance, burst out with her grievance : 

"Sir King, you have truly driven the heathen from the land as 
you promised, but bandits and robbers still infest many a bridge and 
ford. If I were king I should not rest until the loneliest spot in the 
realm were as free from bloodshed as your altar cloth." 

"Fair maiden," replied the King, courteously ignoring her lack 
of courtesy, "rest assured that I and my knights will never lay aside 
our arms while there is one lonely moorland that is not as safe as the 
centre of this hall. Pray tell us your name and your particular need." 
"My name," said the damsel proudly, "is Lynette; my need is 
a knight to do battle for my sister, the Lady Lyoners, who lives in 
Castle Perilous about which a broad river winds in three loops. Span- 
ning these loops are three bridges guarded by three bandit knights, 
while a fourth, the most terrible of all, keeps her a prisoner in her own 
castle, and besieges her there endeavoring to break her will and force 
her to wed him. Therefore have I come to you, Sir King, for your very 
best knight who is Sir Launcelot as everyone knows. Send us no 
other, I pray you, for already fifty of your knights have given their 
lives in this cause, as their shields testify, for they hang as trophies 
about the black tent of that fourth knight whose face no man has ever 
seen and whose voice no man has ever heard." 

When she had finished speaking there was silence in the hall 
save for the clinking sound of weapons about to be withdrawn from 
their scabbards. Then in another moment every sword in the room 
was being pointed forward and upward, while the cry rang through 
the whole castle : 

"The quest. Sir King!" 

For the instant Arthur, so absorbed had he been in the maiden's 
story, had forgotten Gareth and the promise he had made him. He 
was smiling now as he paused before assigning the adventure to 

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"WHO LIVES IN CASTLE PERILOUS"* 



*01d Castle, Michel 



[Courtesy Braun et Cie.] 



Launcelot to look down upon that forest of swords which spoke to 
him so eloquently of the valor of his knights. Suddenly his eye fell 
upon something that was truly an amazing sight: This was a great 
iron spit raised as high as any sword by the begrimed hand of one of 
the kitchen knaves. Then the King remembered! 

His face first flushed and then paled, for he knew that Gareth, 
though of royal blood, was nevertheless but a boy as yet unproved, 
and he knew, too, that this was a quest in which many a full-grown 
man had failed. Yet he had given his word, and the word of a King 
may not be broken; therefore, turning to the poorly clad scullion, he 
bent his head, saying: 

"Sir Fair-hands, the quest is yours." 

Up to that moment, in the general excitement, none of the knights 
had noticed the entrance of this intruder in their midst. Now, how- 
ever, every eye in the room was turned upon the spot where poor Gareth 
stood with his spit still in his hand. 

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It was a rule at Arthur's court that there should be no murmuring 
when a quest was assigned. But never before had the self-control 
of the knights been put to such a test as this. For a while there was 
a dead silence which was broken presently by Sir Kay who could not 
repress a deep grunt. Then the maiden, having at last realized what 
had happened burst forth: 

"Shame on you, Sir King, and shame forever on your boasted 
Order of the Round Table! I, a maiden of gentle birth, have asked 
you for your best knight, and you have given me your kitchen knave ! — 
Your kitchen knave ! " 

Then before anyone could stop her, she turned her back on the 
King, fled from the room, and was on her horse and away. 

Gareth, however, had no idea of losing his opportunity. Loosen- 
ing a string, therefore, he allowed his kitchen garb to fall off, revealing 
the fact, to the amazement of all present, that he was clothed under- 
neath in a full suit of glittering, jewelled armor. Then, throwing 
aside his spit, he seized spear and shield, gifts from the King, and 
leaping upon a war horse, another gift, was after the fleeing maiden 
before the spectators had had time to recover from their surprise. 

Just beyond the gates of the city he overtook her, and saw to 
his dismay, that despite his transformation, the flush af anger deep- 
ened in her cheeks at sight of him. Nevertheless, he addressed her 
most courteously. 

"Fair Damsel," said he, "the quest is mine. Ride and I follow." 

At this the maiden drew herself to her full height and answered 
while her black eyes flashed scorn upon her would-be champion: 

" Sir Scullion, I have but one request to make of you, and that is 
that you leave me this instant. Far rather would I fall a prey to 
bandits or wild beasts than be protected by such as you. Leave me, 
I pray you, for you smell of the kitchen." 

"Damsel," replied Gareth still as courteously as ever, "say what 
you please to me, but whatever you say, rest assured I will never leave 
you till I achieve the quest, or die in the attempt. Ride and I follow." 

Upon hearing this, without another word the maiden spurred her 
palfrey in a vain attempt to outdistance her protector, and so they 
rode through deep woods until the shades of night overtook them, 
and they were obliged to seek shelter at a neighboring castle. 

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The next morning, however, 
the two were early on their way 
once more, and Gareth had begun 
to think that the fair Lynette 
would never deign to speak to 
him again when suddenly she 
reined her horse, thus allowing 
him to come up with her, and 
said: 

"Sir Scullion, we shall soon 
reach the first loop of the river 
which is guarded, as I told the 
King, by a bandit knight. He 
calls himself Morning Star, and I 
advise you to turn back; for no 
kitchen knave could ever hope 
to do battle successfully with such 
as he." 

"Madam," said Gareth 
firmly, "as I have told you be- 
fore, this quest is mine. I pray you, ride on and I follow." 

She said no more, but scornfully obeyed his command, and it 
was not long before they came to a bridge which spanned a narrow 
but deep stream. On the farther side Gareth beheld a silk pavilion, 
gay with golden streaks and rays of the Lent-lily, except where the 
dome rose high and purple. From the top there floated a crimson 
banner, and beneath, an unarmed warrior was pacing to and fro. 

At sight of the maiden's champion, this knight gave a strange call, 
whereupon three beautiful, silken-clad maidens, the Daughters of 
the Dawn, whose golden tresses were begemmed with drops of morning 
dew came forward and clad the warrior in light blue armor and placed 
in his hand a blue shield in the centre of which shone a morning star. 

Then the knight leaped upon his horse, and with fiery speed he 
and Gareth shocked together in the centre of the bridge so that both 
their spears were bent, then each hurled a stone from his catapult, 
after which, Gareth recovering himself lashed so fiercely with his 
brand that he drove his enemy backward down the bridge until his 

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"HE WAS CLOTHED UNDERNEATH IN A Fl LL 

SUIT OF GLITTERING JEWELLED ARMOR"* 
*Van Dyck, Dresden. [Courtesi/ Braun el Cie.] 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



own shield was broken— but the Morning Star lay grovelling at his 
feet. 

"Spare my life. Sir Knight, I yield!" the great warrior was now 
crying. 

"I will spare it," replied Gareth, "on condition that this maiden 
asks me to do so." 

"Insolent scullion," cried the damsel flushing, "must I stoop 
so low as to ask a favor of you.^* I will not." 

"Then shall he die," said Gareth quietly. 

"Stop rascal," cried Lynette as Gareth began to unlace the 
warrior's helmet, "it would be a shame for me to allow a knight to 
be slain by a kitchen knave. Therefore I ask you, Sir Scullion, to 
spare his life." 

"Rise then," said Gareth to his fallen enemy, "but give me 
your shield in place of my broken one, and ride to Arthur's hall and 
there tell the King that his kitchen knave has achieved one fourth 
part of his quest." Then to the maiden he said, "Ride, Damsel, and 
I follow." 

On they went, those two strange companions, reviler and reviled, 
while the sun gradually rose higher in the heavens, and the heat grew 
more and more oppressive. Toward noon Lynette slowed her palfrey 
once again and turning to her champion said: 

"Sir Knave, by some evil chance you have managed to overcome 
a knight. Think not, however, that you will be able to stand against 
him whom you are now about to encounter. He calls himself Noonday 
Sun, and his strength as far exceeds that of his brother. Morning Star, 
as the light of the sun at noon exceeds that of the star that fades in 
the blue of dawn. I warn you for the second time to flee." 

But Gareth's only answer was: 

"Maiden, the quest is mine. Ride and I follow." 

Within a few more moments they had reached the second bend 
of the river where they beheld sitting astride a huge red horse the 
terrible Noonday Sun. This man's armor and shield were so brightly 
burnished that they seemed to cast off sparks so that Gareth was 
nearly blind by their splendor. At sight of the boy this mighty warrior 
gave an angry cry and plunged into the foaming stream where Gareth 
met him half way. Four mighty strokes they gave each other with 

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"A BRIDGE WHICH SPANNED A NAItltdW 15t T 
DEEP STREAM"* 

*The Bridge, Turuer. [Courlesy Braun et Cie.] 



their swords, then because there 
was no room in the whirhng wa- 
ters for any tourney skill, Gareth 
feared that he would be over- 
come and put to shame before 
the maiden. Just then, however, 
the knight raised his ponderous 
arm for a fifth stroke, whereupon 
his horse slipped in the stream, 
and the waters extinguished the 
light of the Noonday Sun. 

Gareth, however, was too 
true a knight to take such an ad- 
vantage of his enemy. He put 
his lance across the ford, there- 
fore, and with great difficulty 
managed to bring him to shore. 
But the warrior was no longer 
willing to continue the contest; so Gareth spared his life at the 
request of the maiden upon the condition that he ride to Arthur's court 
and inform the King that one-half of the kitchen knave's quest was 
now achieved. 

Then the two rode on once more through the long hours of the 
sultry afternoon. Toward evening the maiden reined her horse once 
more and began to speak in a voice that seemed to Gareth just a 
trifle less scornful. 

"Sir Scullion," said she, "for a kitchen knave you have truly 
done well. Nevertheless, if the Noonday Sun's horse had not slipped 
you certainly would not have been the victor. Therefore I advise 
you to leave this quest, for the man that you are now to meet as an 
opponent is an old and seasoned warrior, who calls himself Evening 
Star. You will have little chance to stand against him I assure you. 
Be wise and flee for your life while there is yet time." 

"Maiden," said Gareth as courteously as ever, "the quest is 
mine. Ride and I follow." 

So they rode and presently reached the third loop of the river which 
was spanned by a bridge of treble bow. Beyond this bridge, outlined 

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against the rose-red of the western sky stood a huge figure wrapped 
in hardened skins that fit him Hke his own. 

"See," whispered the maiden in a frightened voice, "if you should 
succeed in cleaving his armor, those skins would turn the blade of 
your sword. O Gareth, Gareth, be careful!" 

At that new tone the lad's heart leaped within for joy, but he 
had not long to consider its meaning for the Evening Star was now 
calling to him from the bridge: 

"O brother-star, why do you shine here so low? Your ward is 
higher up. But tell me, have you slain the maiden's champion?" 

Then the damsel saw that he was mistaking Gareth for his brother 
because he bore the Morning Star's shield, and cried out to him: 

"No star of yours, but shot from Arthur's heaven with all disaster 
to you and yours! Both your younger brothers have gone down 
before this youth; and so will you. Sir Star; are you not old?" 

"Y^es, old," laughed the knight, "both old and hard with the 
might and breath of twenty such boys. 

Then he blew a fierce blast on his horn, whereat, from out a storm- 
beaten and many-stained pavilion came a grizzled old woman who 
armed him in battered arms and brought him a helm with a drying 
evergreen for a crest and a shield whose emblem was a half-tarnished 
evening star. Thus equipped, he leaped upon his horse, and he and 
Gareth hurled madly together on the bridge. 

Three times in that terrible struggle the lad threw his opponent, 
and three times he saw him rise again as strong as ever until Gareth 
was panting hard, and his heart, fearing that he would now be over- 
come, labored within him, Just at this moment, however, above the 
din of clashing arms, he heard the voice of Lynette. 

"Well done, brave knight!" she was crying. "O knave, as noble 
as any knight, shame me not! O good knight-knave, strike! You 
are worthy of the Round Table! His arms are old; he trusts his 
hardened skin. Strike ! Strike ! " 

Then Gareth encouraged by this unexpected praise smote with 
such might that he hewed off great pieces of his enemy's armor and at 
last succeeded in hurling him headlong over the bridge. Panting 
still he turned to the maiden saying : 

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"Three fourths of my quest is now achieved, Fair Damsel; ride 
and I follow." 

But Lynette answered very, very gently: 

"I lead no longer. You are the kingliest of all kitchen knaves. 
Ride at my side, I pray you." 

So the two rode side by side as the long summer twilight depeened 
about them. After a while the maiden spoke again, and all her former 
haughtiness had left her so that her voice was sweet and shy : 

"Sir," she murmured, "Sir — whom I would now call a knight 
if I had not heard you call yourself a knave^ — I am ashamed to have 
treated you so discourteously. I am of noble birth, and I thought 
the King scorned me and mine when he assigned the quest to you. 
But now I humbly ask your pardon, for I know that whatever may 
be your rank, you have a princely heart." 

"Damsel," said Gareth gently, "you are not all to blame, except 
for mistrusting our good King. Know then that I am no kitchen 
knave but the son of King Lot and Queen Bellicent of Orkney, and 
if I had any but a princely heart I should shame my birth." 

Then they rode again for a long time in silence. After a while 
Lynette spoke once more: 

"Sir Prince, I feel that the time has come when I must warn you; 
but do not, I pray you, think that I speak any longer in scorn. You 
have fought valiantly. I doubt if Launcelot himself could have 
performed greater feats. But now I plead with you to turn back. 
You are wounded T know, although you have not told me. Wonders 
you have done, miracles you cannot do. This knight who guards the 
castle is not a man but a monster who calls himself Night or Death. 
No mortal has ever seen his face uncovered, or heard his voice, and 
his appearance is too terrible for me to describe. 1 beg of you to 
turn back and leave the achieving of this part of the quest to Launcelot, 
whom the Dreadful One challenged." 

But Gareth only shook his head, and rode on saying: 

"This quest is mine. Fair Damsel, in spite of Day and Night 
and Death himself." 

And now heavy clouds began to gather hiding the friendly stars 
from their gaze, while the air took on a strange, midnight chill. Pres- 
ently Lynette leaned toward Gareth and whispered in an awed voice : 

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tl^^mJ^^^^^^^^M^^^ 


,^ J 






J 


F '4,* 
^ 


fl 



"There!" 

And through the gloom Ga- 
reth perceived, standing beside 
what he guessed to be Castle 
Perilous, a huge black pavilion 
with a black banner trailing from 
its peak. In an instant, before 
Lynette could prevent him, he 
had seized a long, black horn that 
hung near by, and blown a blast 
that sent a ghostly echo through 
the night. Then he waited, but 
there was no response, save from 
the castle windows where lights 
began to twinkle and pale faces 
were seen peering out. Again he 
blew — and a third time. Then, 
at last, the great black doors of 
the pavilion were slowly drawn 
aside, and there issued forth a 
hideous figure in coal-black ar- 
mor, seated upon a huge black 
horse, and bearing a black shield whose emblem was a white 
breast-bone, barren ribs, and a grinning skull. Through the dim 
light this frightful apparition advanced, then paused, speaking never 
a word. 

And now Gareth really believed that his last hour had come, for 
all things seemed to be enveloped in a cloud of nameless horror. Sud- 
denly the great black war-horse gave an unexpected plunge forward, 
and those that had not closed their eyes in terror, saw Death reel in 
the saddle, and drop to the ground with a mighty crash. In an instant 
Gareth had leaped from his own horse, and with two mighty strokes 
managed to split open his enemy's armor. Then — out peeped the 
bright face of a blooming boy ! 

Before Gareth could recover from his astonishment, the child 
was kneeling before him and pleading: 

"Do not slay me. Sir Knight, I beg of you! My brothers, Morn- 

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'WHEN HE RODE BACK TO ARTHURS HALL 
WITH HIS BRIDE"* 

*Knights and Ladies, Vernet. [Courtesy Braun el Cie.] 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



ing Star, Noonday Sun, and Evening Star made nie dress up in this 
way to frighten other knights away from the Lady Lyoners." 

"But, my child," asked Gareth kindly, "what madness made you 
challenge Launcelot, the chief knight of Arthur's Round Table?" 

"Fair Sir, they made do that too," the boy replied, "for they 
hated Launcelot, and hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream. 
They never dreamed that he could pass all three bridges." 

Then Gareth gently raised the lad, bidding him have no fear, 
and the two followed Lynette into the castle where the Lady Lyoners 
stood waiting to welcome them, and where she speedily made ready a 
great feast in honor of Gareth and the overthrow of Death. 

Now some say that Prince Gareth married the Lady Lyoners, 
while others say that he married Lynette, but however that may be, 
when he rode back to Arthur's hall with his bride, he found that one 
of the sieges of the mystic Round Table glowed with the letters of his 



name. 



GLOSSARY 3 



1. Boon, a gift, or a good thing bestowed. 
2. Brand, a sword. 3. Burnish, to polish. 
4. Catapult, a miUtary engine used for throw- 
ing spears. 5. Champion, one who fights in 
behalf of another. 6. Cleave, to split. 7. 
Damsel, a maiden. 8. Device, an emblem 
borne on a shield. 9. Emblem, a picture used 
as the distinctive badge of a person or family. 
10. Ford, a crossing in a stream. 11. Knave, 
a male servant. 12. Lent-Lily, a daffodil. 



13. Lineage, family. 14. Obeisance, a bow. 
15. Palfrey, a woman's saddle-horse. 16. 
Pavilion, a tent. 17. Plaudit, an expression 
of praise or applause. 18. Quest, a search. 
19. Scullion, a servant who cleans pots and 
pans. 20. Seneschal, a steward. 21. Siege, 
a seat. 22. Spit, a pointed bar upon which 
meat was roasted before a fire. 23. Trophy, 
anything taken from an enemy and treasured 
as a proof of victory. 



The St. Joseph, Mo., Story Tellers' League is active and under the 
inspiration and guidance of the president, Miss Martina Martin, the 
members are holding many enjoyable sessions. Recently they had as a 
special treat an Indian folk lore programme. Considerable local color was 
given to the affair in a paper dealing with the folk lore of the St. Joseph 
Indians, gathered during the days when St. Joseph was a trading post. 
Miss Mary Owen told a "Legend of Paradise Trail." The meeting closed 
with some Indian dances in which all present participated. Eight members 
were added to the roll. 

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!^^ !J\icl)ar6 ^^orse 3fo63e 

Columbia University 

'^^^^ HE Bible is over forty per cent, story. The historical 
%^^ narratives are biographical. Much else of the Bible 
furnishes story material. The Book of Jeremiah for 
instance is very biographical. The prophecies of Amos, Hosea 
and Isaiah and the epistles of Paul are rich in biographical 
reminiscences from which stories are easily constructed. 

Bible stories are survivals of the fittest products of a story- 
telling people, handed down from a story-telling age. In 
general they are masterpieces of narrative. They are old 
stories and as literature are characteristic of the stage of culture 
which they reflect. They are Jewish stories and have racial 
traits. 

The stories are dramatic, in the primary sense of that word, 
being in large part dialogue. If the story of Adam and Eve 
impresses us as very circumstantial it is the illusion of con- 
versational detail. Abraham's life is rehearsed largely in dia- 
logue. Two-thirds of the Joseph tale is direct discourse. 
Dialogue features narrative throughout the Old and New Testa- 
ments. 

Other elements of Bible story are action, environment, the 
results of word, deed and personality and a tracing of a control 
of events to Providence. 

The decided dramatic character of Bible stories is very 
evident in the expression of emotion. The feelings of char- 
acters are revealed in what they say and do. The Hebrew 
language is exceedingly limited in emotional terms. God's 
pleasure and displeasure are frequently mentioned but generally 

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in very much the same words. Human emotion is less commonly 
named and anything approaching a description of psychological 
processes is rare in the Old Testament, and, outside of Paul's 
writings, in the New Testament. When David's baby died, it 
is said that he was "vexed," but how much feeling is revealed 
in his exclamation, "I shall go to him but he will not return 
to me." When Absalom was slain it is narrated that the king 
"was much moved" and "wept," but what words in all literature 
sob like his: "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! 
Would I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!" 

Private thoughts are expressed in terms of a man's con- 
versation with himself or with God. Even in the New Testa- 
ment, written in the rich language of Greece, we read, "He 
prayed with (to) himself; 'I thank Thee that I am not as 
other men are.'" And again, "I will say to my soul: 'Soul 
thou hast much goods laid up for many years.'" 

Since conversations furnish the story-teller with thoughts, 
feelings and purposes he can indulge the modern habit of char- 
acter description and mind analysis as much as he likes in 
reproducing a Bible story. He can turn conversations into 
narrative and will find this convenient when he wants to con- 
dense a story or when his memory fails to recall the full report 
of a dialogue. 

Bibh stories so commonly turn upon a phrase of direct 
discourse that the important parts of a dialogue must be learned 
by heart. As the art of the story writer lies in dramatic power, 
it is only by making conversation central that it is possible to 
reproduce Bible stories with their characteristic charm. 

The emphasis of dialogue has the inherent limitation of a 
comparative independence of scenic and geographical descrip- 
tion. However unimportant the description of circumstantial 
environment may have been to the main purpose of the stories 

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or to the collateral interests of the Jewish readers of the time, 
its absence leaves something to be desired by those who relate 
them to-day. Our own collateral interests are not a matter of 
choice, and the story-teller must absorb the attention of his 
hearers. The question is how he shall secure what at first 
glance he misses. 

When ideas expressed in speech are self-sufficient the environ- 
ment of the speakers is relatively unimportant in our own time, 
and this is the case with many Bible stories. When narratives 
have plot some description of situation and locality is necessary, 
and we do find background in the stories of Joseph, Daniel and 
Paul for instance. Here it enhances the significance of the 
dialogues themselves. It invests the narratives with a reality 
which nothing but a knowledge of environment can supply. 
A geographical background makes plainer a story's outcome 
and the sequence of events. This is especially true of military 
movements. For this reason battles and campaigns recorded 
in the Old Testament are generally obscure according to modern 
measures of military interest. No biblical narratives are so 
baffling as those of the wanderings of the Israelites in the 
desert under Moses. We are furnished with long lists of camp- 
ing places without an adequate description of even the most 
important of them. Kadesh-barnea itself was not identified 
beyond dispute until thirty years ago. The Mt. Sinai region 
is still a very open question. It is less than a decade since 
scholars first recognized in the biblical descriptions of this 
mountain the irruptions of a volcano. A vast amount of cir- 
cumstantial detail regarding biblical events has been garnered 
from Palestine during the last century, when Europeans were 
finally permitted to travel there, and a surprising illumination 
of biblical narrative has been the result. Palestine has come 
to be called a "fifth gospel." 

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The limited power of scenic description of ancient Jewish 
hteratiire is inherent. Hebrew is a very poor vehicle for observa- 
tions of nature, a conclusive evidence of a racial limitation. It 
was left to the crusaders to discover to Europeans that Palestine 
is carpeted with wild flowers and in astonishing profusion. 
Who would suspect it from the Scriptures? The psalms alone 
refer one hundred and fifty times to the sea, but in all the 
Bible no mention is made of its color. 

The addition of scenic detail will lengthen a story. It is 
the obvious method of the story-teller of accomplishing this 
end, if the description enhances the story and the narrative 
does not become too long. A good book on the historical 
geography of Palestine should supply a story-teller with what 
lies behind the lines of biblical narrative. 

• A second common characteristic of Bible stories is their 
emphasis upon will. 

No race developed the will as did the Jew. His stories turn 
upon choice. Nor is it occasional choice, such as the practice 
of a virtue in the face of a temptation. For him a life choice 
determines the questions of conduct. Hebrew heroes are 
distinguished by a life purpose to which they succeed in re- 
maining steadfast. Thus a temptation is less significant as a 
lure to transgress a law than as a test of loyalty. The disobedience 
of Adam and Eve is always interpreted as something graver 
than a breach of a single command. It is commonly called 
"the" fall. But this is the result of its conspicuous position 
as the first story in the Bible, in consequence of which it has 
been studied with unusual care. In reality this story is the 
negative aspect of Hebrew loyalty to life purpose which marks 
the narratives throughout the Old and New Testaments. Al- 
ways temptation is a fall from one plane of hfe to another. 
Witness Noah, Abraham, Jacob, Joseph, David, Solomon, 

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Hezeklah, Daniel, Nehemiah, Esther, Peter, Paul. Negative 
cases occur again and again: Cain, Esau, Absalom, Judas, 
Ananias. Compare Jesus' temptation in the desert with 
Adam's in the garden. 

Other common characteristics of Bible stories might be 
mentioned. 

The best told Bible stories are those of the Saul-David 
cycle, found in I and II Samuel. The Book of I Maccabees 
should be included in a library of Hebrew story. Judas Macca- 
beus is not only the greatest mihtary genius of Hebrew history 
but no purer patriot or nobler character adorns the pages of 
Jewish literature. 



Trom tl^e !6ooK Sljelf 



Glooscap, the Great Chief and Other Stories: Legends of the Micmacs. By Emelyn 

Newcomb Partridge. Price $1.25. Sturgis & Walton Company, New York. 

This is a collection of stories that firmly grips the reader's interest at the very beginning 
and holds it until the end. There is no richer legendary lore than that of the Micmacs In 
making her selection for retelling Mrs. Partridge has chosen with consummate skill the best in 
the several fields of wonder tales, animal stories, fairy tales and legends, and treated each separate 
story in a manner calculated to bring out its best points. 

Taken singly or as a whole they will rank among the highest of their class as a medium 
of entertainment for the reader, be he young or old, and, moreover, they possess rare adapt- 
ability to the needs of the teller of oral stories. 

There is an occasional glimpse of chaste humor that is delicious. In "Coolnajoo, the 
Stupid" the author has found a character that will furnish genuine delight to the juvenile listener. 
On the other hand, the opening story, " Oochigeaskw, the Little Scarred Girl," while distinctly 
pathetic, is none the less fascinating. 

But there is more than mere humor and pathos in the Glooscap stories. The fullest 
latitude is given to the imagination in depicting the picturesque side of the primitive natures 
of the interesting but little known Indians of the Bay of Fundy region. It was in itself an in- 
spiration for the author to take her readers through a maze of sorrow in the earlier chapters and 
at last lead them out into the bright sunshine of humor, toward the close, leaving them enveloped 
in a cloud of regret that the charming book was not longer. 

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^\:)al t^e Cea^ues are iDoing 



Between the dark and the daylight. 
When the night is beginning to lower. 

Comes a pause in the day's occupation, 
That is known as the children's hour. 

— Longfellow. 



Storj OelUtxg In Cos Angeles, (TaU 

!^Y ^va Smltl) 

4pOR a number of years, the story telling classes of the College of 
*^ Oratory of the University of Southern California, in Los Angeles, 
have been proving that the telling of stories is no longer mere pastime, 
but an art to be followed as a serious vocation. 

The courses are under the direction of Miss Beulah Wright, Dean of 
the College, whose work as a story teller and interpreter of literature is 
well known. It is Miss Wright's purpose to fill the needs of the story 
teller, with special reference to the demands of the child mind, through 
all its phases of development. 

When the request came, two years ago, for story tellers in the libraries 
of Los Angeles, it found the members of the Department of Oratory 
thoroughly prepared to fill the demand. Since then, the scope of the work 
has broadened, extending to the clubs and Parent-Teachers' Associations. 

For four months of the year the branch libraries are supplied with a 
story teller once a week, who gives miscellaneous stories to the younger 
children and a series, such as "King Arthur," or "The California Mis- 
sions," or "The Patriots" for the older group. As a result, statistics 
show an increased demand for juvenile literature, as well as a growing 
interest in this essential phase of the child's education. A class is con- 
ducted also for teachers, mothers and librarians. 

Every effort is being made to inculcate in the child, through this 
pastime, woven about with fancy, wonder and heroic interest, ideals upon 
which rest the bases of culture and of civilization. 



The Children's Hour promises to be a happy one in Greenville, N. C. 

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Miss Anne Irvine, who is an enthusiast on the subject, is working hard 
to increase interest in story teUing among the teachers of her town in 
Pitt County. She is an admirer of the Storytellers' Magazine and in 
a recent letter says: "It is so good that I want my friends to have it, 
and I want it to hve so I can have it myself." 



Preparations are under way for a busy season of the Children's Story 
Hour at Mobile, Ala. There was much enthusiasm manifested at the 
preliminary meeting, which was held at Harte's Auditorium on October 
13th, and it was confidently asserted that the success of last season would 
be repeated. 



Stor? Oelling at Mloutevallo, ^la. 

The Storytellers League of the Alabama Girls Technical Institute at 
Montevallo, was organized in the Department of Education during the 
winter of 1909 and 1910. The purpose was to use the League as a medium 
for developing within its members the power to tell a story, an apprecia- 
tion of story values, and to equip them with story material to use in the 
school room. That storytelling was a new social activity in the school 
was evidenced by the laugh that swept over the assembly of four hundred 
girls when Dr. Palmer, President of the Institute, announced the first 
meeting of the Storytellers League. Dr. Palmer was enthusiastic in 
support of the League and in the first days when a new venture needs a 
friend his espousal was our most substantial encouragement. 

The organization had to be well defined and so there were the usual 
ofiicers: President, Vice-president and Secretary and Treasurer. Owing 
to local conditions it seemed best at first to confine its membership to 
Freshmen and Sophomore students, but the girls in passing from sophomore 
to junior class were unwilling to sever their connection with the League. 
And so in 1911 separate organizations were effected for the Freshmen, 
Sophomore, and Junior and Senior Classes, each of the three organizations 
being known as a chapter of the League. The Freshman chapter chooses 
most of its material from folklore and is called the Uncle-Remus chapter; 

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the Sophomores draw the larger part of the stories from the world stories and 
are known as The Wyche chapter; the Senior and Junior organization is 
the largest, being open to the classes (membership in the other chapters 
is elective); it selects its material from stories of more formal literary 
value that can be adapted to telling, and is called the Poe chapter. The 
officers of the Poe chapter are ex officio the League officers; upon the 
Poe chapter devolves responsibility for the organization of the Uncle 
Remus chapter whose members are usually new students. Each chapter 
meets every week, once a month coming together for a League meeting. 

In 1911 Dr. Palmer turned over the April school bulletin to the student 
organizations for use as year books. That is all the clubs, literary, musical, 
and the League arranged their programs for the following year, and pub- 
lished them in the April bulletin. The year book has proven very helpful to 
the League, since it enables each member to keep in touch with the work 
of other chapters, and the year-books serve as excellent bibliographies. 
The interest of the Faculty in the League has aided its growth in interest 
among the girls. Usually in the chapter meeting the program is carried 
out by the girls, sometime a faculty member is present and participates; 
at the League meeting the most popular stories of the month in the several 
chapters are repeated, or a member of the Faculty tells a story of special 
interest. In the Poe chapter after a few meetings, perhaps a month on 
Hawthorne, or Poe, a member of the Faculty will take one of the regular 
meetings for a round-tjablie discussion of that author. These meetings 
have proven very helpful to the girls. 

As a result of the presence of the League in the Institute a very 
marked increase of interest in storytelling is noticeable, part of which 
would have come no doubt without the League, since it is in the air, but 
the part the League has played is appreciable and deserves to be mentioned. 
In a modest way the League has made an impression in the State. Most 
of the girls that go out from the Institute teach, and many of the League 
members have carried the storytelling enthusiasm with them into their 
schools. I know of instances where there is great eagerness on the part 
of the children to tell stories at the Friday afternoon exercises of the school; 
some of the stories come to the child from the home. In one community 
the League has demonstrated its usefulness in bringing the home to school 
and taking the school into the home. Could a better result come from 
so simple a working body? The Southland is rich in folklore that is being 

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allowed to die as those who know it pass beyond. It has the been hope 
of those connected with the League in Montevallo to undertake some 
definite means to conserve the stories of Alabama, but so far only in one 
or two instances has anything been accomplished. Who is to be the 
guardian of the spiritual heritage of the people? The Corn and Tomato 
Clubs are organized, and it is well; but there are long rainy days, long 
winter evenings, days of leisure, all of which bring demand that cannot be 
met by economic means; the spiritual need should be the obligation of some 
agency. 



Myrtle Brooke. 



Teachers College, New York City. 



(ri)lca90 !^raRcl)*s find 4^r03ramme 

The Chicago branch of the Story Tellers' League continues to flourish. 
With 112 members, every one enthusiastic, it is starting out on its fourth 
year with every prospect for the most enjoyable and profitable season it 
has experienced. Meetings are held monthly on the first Friday, in the 
Directors' Room of the Chicago Public Library. A new plan of action is 
being worked out for the season of 1913-14, as follows: 

A lecture will be given every other meeting by an authority on the 
subject assigned. The meeting of the month after the lecture will be 
devoted to discussions of the paper given and telling stories suggested by 
the lecture. Three members are assigned for the discussion and three for 
the telling of stories apropos. 

The speakers and subjects of the season just begun are as follows: 

October 3.— "The Newer Comedy," Prof. W. D. McClintock, Univer- 
sity of Chicago. 

November 7. — Discussion and telHng of humorous stories. 

December 5. — Symbolic Stories, Mrs. Gudrun Thome-Thomsen. 

January 2. — Discussion and telling of symbolic stories. 

February 6. — Ballads and Lyric Poetry. Percival Chubb. 

March 6. — Discussion and poetry. 

April 3. — Bible Stories, Rev. Herman Page, D. D. 

May 1. — Discussion and telling of Bible stories. 

June 5. — Story Tellers' Festival. Stories told by Richard T. Wyche 
and other leading story tellers of the country. 

302 



"Jrom tl)e £6ltor'5 Stu6^ 



Vy^R. PERCIVAL CHUBB said in an article which appeared 
J^^ in the July number of The Storytellers' Magazine, 
"Imagery is the magic of the storytellers' art." This 
is a striking statement of a fundamental truth, and while there 
may be psychic laws so dehcate that we cannot fully understand 
them, his use of the word magic should not lead one tolDelieve 
that the art of story telling lies outside of the field of natural 
and known laws. 

Imagination, the power to visualize, to see a mental picture 
and to create that picture anew is fundamental in telhng a 
story. He who cannot see a mental picture cannot make others 
see it. To the extent that the story teller sees vividly and 
to that extent can he make others see. Merely recalling the 
words of a story is not enough— the picture must be so vivid, 
so clear in one's mind, that he can not only tell it in his own 
words, but if need be, carve it in stone, mould it in clay, paint 
it on canvas, or co-ordinate it with feeling and motive in life. 

Equally important in telling the story is feeling. One 
must assimilate and feel afresh its truth each time he tells the 
story if he would make others feel it. Feeling is the dynamic 
in life. People devoid of feeling never do anything good or bad; 
those who have great passions are the creators, the builders, the 
artists, or those who forget self in a great cause or a great love. 
These two fundamental elements, imagination and feehng, one 
must master and direct if he would tell a story effectively. It is 
because the child feels these elemental forces in the story that 
it holds him and gives vision and inspiration. As a poet has 

said: 

"To him one crowded hour of glorious deeds / 

Is worth an age without a name." 



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Professor Simon N. Patten of the University of Penn- 
sylvania, speaking of the need of wholesome ideals In recreation 
and work, gives from a sociological point in one of his publica- 
tions a thought that bears on this subject, which we quote: 
"Climaxes, vivid attention and strenuous bodily co-ordination 
are members of a series each of which leads to the next, and 
together they transform men from sensual brutes to the highest 
products of civilization. Vivid mental Images do for the 
modern world what bears and miracles did for our ancestors. 
They socialize Impulse by making It come at the end of an 
upward movement In interest Instead of at the beginning. No 
evil results from strong impulses. If they are aroused at the end 
of a rational process like that by which a climax Is reached." 



Dr. Hodge, of Columbia University, whose article on "The 
Bible as a Story-book" appears in this number, will give four 
lectures on the same subject before the Brooklyn Sunday-school 
Union on Saturday afternoons in February. 



Mr. Seumas MacManus, who spent his summer in Ireland, 
has returned to America with many new Irish folk tales, which 
he will tell to the delight of his American audiences during the 
coming winter. One of his new stories appeared in the October 
number of The Storytellers' Magazine. Mr. MacManus 
will fill engagements at Columbia University, New York City, 
and at many other places during the season. 



"The October number of your magazine is a great success. I have 
read every article,"— L. H. Jones, Ypsilanti, Mich., former President 
Michigan State Normal College. 

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Out of tl)e Cast 

' ^\i HAVE a memory of a place and a magical time in which the 
\m Sun and the Moon were larger and brighter than now. 
Whether it was of this life or of some other life before I cannot 
tell. But I know the sky was very much more blue and nearer to 
the world — almost as it seems to become above the masts of a steamer 
steaming into equatorial summer. The sea was alive, and used to 
talk — and the Wind made me cry out for joy when it touched me. 
Once or twice during other years in divine days lived among the peaks, 
I have dreamed just for a moment that the same wind was blowing — 
but it was only a remembrance. 

Also in that place the clouds were wonderful, and of colors for 
which there are no names at all — colors that used to make me hungry 
and thirsty. I remember, too, that the days were ever so much 
longer than these days — and that every day there were new wonders 
and new pleasures for me. And all that country and time were softly 
ruled by One who thought only of ways to make me happy. Some- 
times I would refuse to be made happy, and that always caused her 
pain, although she was divine; — and I remember that I tried very 
hard to be sorry. When the day was done, and there fell the great 
hush of the light before moonrise, she would tell me stories that made 
me tingle from head to foot with pleasure. I have never heard any 
other stories half so beautiful. And when the pleasure became too 
great she would sing a weird little song which always brought sleep. 
At last there came a parting day; and she wept, and told me of a 
charm she had given that I must never, never lose, because it would 
keep me young and give me power to return. But I never returned. 
And the years went; and one day I knew that I had lost the charm 
and had become ridiculously old. 



"The Industrial Arts Magazine" is the name of a publication just 
launched at Milwaukee, Wis., by The Bruce Publishing Co. The pro- 
spectus states that it "will strive to give practical and useful help to the 
teacher in conducting classes in the manual and industrial arts." 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Ol)e OelUns of !6ible Stories 

I ^Y Cveleen 3farrl50ii 

'^IHE following rules are advisable in re-telling the oft-repeated but 
^^ always hiteresting "Bible stoiies every child should know," so as 
to include amongst one's hearers children of all creeds and nationalities, 

1st. Treat the story simply from the viewjjoint of its place in history 
and literature, emphasizing its moral value, dramatic possibility, and local 
setting. All questions which touch on doctrines and creeds must be set aside. 

2d. Create in the child's mind a clear-cut picture of life in Palestine, 
woven around and into the story. This includes nature studies — in the 
flower and bird stories told by the Master; studies of animal and vege- 
table life, connected with the Old Testament, etc, — manners, customs, and 
dress of the day; all of which may be introduced by a few graphic touches, 

3d. To bring out the real hero worship latent in the mind of every 
child, the interest of the story must center in one figure, whose character 
is carried through the story in such a manner that the child — almost with- 
out knowing — will desire to build his life along the same lines followed 
in the life of the hero, unconsciously w^eaving into and applying to his 
own daily experiences the high ideals and motives underlying the tale, 

4th, Developing the spiritual, imaginative, and mystical side of child 
nature with stories of the miracles, parables, and all the imagery of "unseen 
things" with which our Bible is rich, 

5th. Each story told complete in itself, but part of a great whole. 
This may be accomplished in one of two ways: 

(a) Telling the stories in sequence, as they find their place in the Bible; 

(b) Grouping the stories around a central thought, such as courage, 
unselfishness, kindness, etc. 

6th. One central fact brought out in each story that will be of edu- 
cational, moral, and mental value to the child. 

7th, The stories told from the viewpoint of a looker-on, also from the 
■ standard of the child. To do this one must first form a mental picture of 
, the scene, with the underlying thought of what one would be likely to do 
, oneself under similar circumstances; then review the story with the practical 

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knowledge of what a child would most likely grasp from such a scene— were 
he present — as coming within his comprehension. To illustrate: Children 
were just as curious thousands of years ago as they are today, always pushing 
to the front to see what is going on. They watched the blind receive sight, 
listened for the dumb to speak, followed the lame man home to see him 
walk, crowded round the little girl raised from the dead to hear her story, 
etc. 

8th. The story told as far as possible in the language of today, — 
occasionally bringing in the Bible words, particularly the words of the 
Master, but as far as may be, without irreverence, putting the story into 
the familiar words of childhood. Children think in the words they are 
accustomed to, and translate the stories told them into their own language; 
as for instance in a case within my knowledge, where a little girl retold 
the story of the sacrifice of Isaac to her mother after hearing it for the first 
time, ending with the startling version — "And just as Abraham took up 
the knife to kill his son, he heard a noise; and when he looked round, there 
beside him stood an angel, who called out just in time, 'Cut it out, Abraham, 
there's a sheep behind you in the bushes.' " 

9th. The story made so vivid before the child's mental vision that, 
during the telling, the whole scene will be focussed before his eyes. To do 
this one must have a clear mental picture of every detail. 

10th. Weaving throughout the story the moral lesson in such a subtle 
manner that the child may absorb the moral unconsciously, with no need of 
pointed application. 

Following these simple lines, it would seem that the Bible stories 
might be acceptable under all conditions, losing none of their value, dignity, 
or fascination, and proving of great importance in the moral, mental, and 
spiritual education of childhood. 



A Story Tellers' League has been organized at Huntington, West 
Virginia, with Miss Clara Nichols, President; Miss Erna Wells, Vice- 
President; Mrs. T. B. Davis, Secretary, address 1123 9th St.; Miss Dora 
Scarff, Treasurer. The work has begun with enthusiasm. 



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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



"3Fairip Oales anb (t^Xlbrzn 



To the Editor of The Storytellers' Magazine: 

Sir: — The first three numbers of The Storytellers' Magazine 
have reached me and have interested me greatly. I hope the magazine 
may prosper; it certainly may become highly useful. 

Will you kindly allow me, as a rather old stager in the study of children, 
to express one thought which I have in examining these numbers of your 
magazine? I should be pleased, indeed, if it were a thought suggestive to 
you in your work as editor. 

Perhaps I should state that for twenty-five years I worked in excep- 
tionally careful schools for children, under conditions favoring intimate 
acquaintance, for nineteen years was principal of the Friends' School in 
Brooklyn. Since 1902 I have been dealing with children (and their kinder- 
gartners and teachers and librarians) less formally. Two winters were 
spent in Boston, mostly in study of children's fiction and in trying to learn 
to write it better than I had done. 

As to the thought which I greatly wish you to welcome, I enclose a 
statement giving in brief the idea and some grounds for it. 

Very truly yours, 

SUSAN PERRY PECKHAM. 
Hotel Superior, Superior, Wis. 

In the Evening Post of the 24th inst. is an editorial upon "The Need 
of Fairy Tales." With its main drift and several of its special claims I feel 
with surprise a lack of sympathy. I demur humbly; yet this is humility 
of one whose life has been favored to an unusual extent by close acquaintance 
with children and has for some thirty years been filled mostly with study 
of effects upon children's minds of the matter which we give them from 
books and other sources. Especially during the last half dozen years have 
I seen more clearly reason to turn from the views offered, in so far as those 
views are argument for feeding children with fairy tales no less extensively 
than they commonly are fed at present. 

Of course, one must not begin here upon the grounds for differing; but 

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may one enter a plea in behalf of consideration of the question whether or 
not there should be in home and school a greater caution in starting the 
youngest children upon the diet of fairy tales and in urging this food upon 
them for several years? Shall we not look even more closely than hereto- 
fore at the children's own tastes? Impressions of mothers in general, of 
kindergartners and busy primary teachers, cannot safely be taken as con- 
vincing. (At breakfast to-day I saw coffee urged with success upon a four- 
year-old ; at luncheon, she waited for no suggestion to drink the large cupful, 
rather strong. How generally are youngsters invited and persuaded to 
eat ice cream; yet those who watch declare that the healthy ones dislike — 
until taught otherwise — either frozen or hot viands.) 

To give my plea substance, I venture to cite a few significant words 
that lie at hand, hoping to choose authorities wdiose opinions everybody is 
glad to remember. Naturally, first, Dr. Eliot, who in writing on "The 
School," has suggested an "amendment in home and school training which 
runs counter to cherished practice in education." He continues: "It has 
long been believed that the minds of children should be opened and in- 
terested through products of the imagination and not through things real — 
through fairy stories, myths, nonsense verses, and tales of rogues, monsters 
(etc.) . . . Much of this nursery and school material is immoral, 
ugly, and horrible; but it is passed down from generation to generation as 
something sacred and improving. A great deal of the reading matter 
supplied to young children is of this variety; so that the mind of the bookish 
child gets filled with this unreal rubbish. . . . The real can be made just 
as fascinating and wonderful as the unreal, and has the advantage of being 
true." 

Professor Huey, in his "Psychology and Pedagogy of Reading," advo- 
cates a measured use of fairy tales, saying: "It is doubtless unwise to 
make the child's early reading deal exclusively, or even mainly, wuth thie 
unreal"; while Dr. John Dewey's "Psychology," under Dissociation, says: 
"The first step of association is to recognize that an image may have ideal 
existence and not be referred to an actual thing. Children are often spoken 
of as possessed of great imagination, when the fact really is that they have 
not learned as yet to make this distinction, and consequently every idea or 
image which occurs to them is taken for reality." Is not this so true, so 
unquestionably true, that we seldom see statement of the fact; but it is 
illustrated by Mr. Aldrich in "The Story of a Bad Boy," when he tells of a 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



certain "yellow-haired little rascal who used to lean above the magic pages 
hour after hour religiously believing every word he read, and no more 
doubting the reality of Sin bad the Sailor or the Knight of the Sorrowful 
Countenance, than he did the existence of his own gBandfather." 

Irving King's " Psychology of Child Development " finds that : " Much 
of the so-called interest in myth and fairy tale can be explained. . . as 
induced phenomena, and not necessarily the normal expression of the 
growing child," and that, ' 'the strongest interests are in the real experiences 
of the immediate world." So too, Mr. Howell's motherly Mrs. Bolton in 
"Annie Kilburn": "You can't tell how children will like a thing. I don't 
believe they like anything that's out of the common — well, not a great 
deal." 

"The child loves truth, craves it, com.prehends it easily, and never 
wearies of it," says Lester F. Ward in "Dynamic Sociology"; and again: 
"The normal mind is hungry for truth, and, when fed on it, devours it 
with relish and digests it without effort. (To some students, the fairy tales, 
as a rule, appear to be, for most children, decidedly indigestible.) Truth 
and fact are the natural food of the intellect, and its powers will be increased 
and its physiological basis will be broadened by the ample supply of this 
legitimate pabulum. . . . The adult mind prefers something obscure, 
intricate and mystical. . . . It is otherwise with the young mind." 
The propoition of "romance and faery" now in use is probably indicated 
fairly by the fact that, in the ten volumes of Houghton Mifflin Co.'s "Chil- 
dren's Hour" collection of readings for children, it is not until the sixth that 
we find any story of the human beings of to-day. The introduction to the 
first volume of five hundred and twenty pages states: "This book is full, 
from cover to cover, of fables and folk-stories"; the second book is filled 
with myths; the third with stories from the classics; the fourth, "Stories of 
Legendary Heroes"; fifth, "Pilgrim's Progress," "Don Quixote," "Baron 
Munchausen," etc. A like allotment is in Miss Bryant's "Stories to Tell 
to Children," and "How to Tell Stories to Children." 

Glenora, N. Y., June 20th. S. P. P. 



"The telling of stories refreshes the mind as a bath refreshes the 
body; it gives exercise to the intellect and its powers; it tests the judg- 
ment and the feelings." — Froebel. 

310 



iDecember 

Ring on, O bells in the steeples. 
In honor of Jesus' birth; 

Let the music of your message. 
Encircle all the earth; 

Sing it on Christmas morning, 
The grand old song again. 



311 







VOLUME 1 DECEMBER, 1913 NUMBER 6 

(.4 Christmas Story) 

!^^ (Tatl^eriRe burner "^v^cd 

^^\ LIND Bartimseus was not his real name — of course not. 
y^ In the first place he had not always been blind. Until 
the night he rushed into neighbor Tyne's burning house 
and rescued a child from death, his eyes had been bright, clear and 
far-seeing. When after weeks of agony, he once more came out 
among his neighbors, he was blind indeed, but not yet Bartimaeus. 
That came later, and this is the manner of its coming. One Sunday 
morning Father Anthony told his people the story of Blind Barti- 
mseus* in words so simple and withal so eloquent, that every heart 
was touched. To the blind man. Father Anthonj-'s words brought 
a special message of hope and cheer. As he left the church, after the 
service, his mind still full of the beautiful old story, he stumbled 
against some of the people lingering about the door. Whereupon, a 
heedless boy who had seen him, called to his fellows, "Step out of 
the way. Here comes Blind Bartimtieus!" All within hearing turned 
upon the boy with words of reproof, reproach or anger — all but the 
blind man. "Nay, scold not the lad," he said. "It is a good name. 
Was not Blind Bartimaeus healed by the Christ? Who knows but 
the boy's words carry a good omen.'^ Perhaps I too shall have my 
blindness lightened by the Master." So ever after the people of the 
village called him "Blind Bartimaeus," not in mocking, but in rever- 

'MarkX: 46-52. 

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ence, hoping in their simple hearts that the Master would indeed 
open the blind eyes. 

All this happened when he was a young man. The years passed 
until at the time of this story he had nearly reached the allotted 
three score years and ten. Still he was Blind Bartimseus and still he 
looked for the coming of the Great Physician. 

Early one morning a strange, wild figure entered the little village. 
Although it was winter, and the ground was white with snow, his 
feet were but partly covered with a pair of old grass sandals. His 
clothes, if so they might be called, were simply a number of undressed 
skins of wild animals. His head was bare and his long, matted, 
white hair and beard streamed out in the wind. Holding his right 
hand aloft, he walked swiftly towards the little church, shouting as 
he went, "A message! A message!" 

"It is the holy man, the hermit Job," whispered the people with 
wondering faces. "What message can he bear.'*" 

Dropping their work they hastened to the church, and by the 
time the hermit had mounted the stone steps and stood ready to 
speak, everyone in the village, — even Blind Bartimseus, — stood on 
the ground below ready to hear the message. Father Anthony, the 
good old priest, alone stood on the steps with the hermit, but back 
and nearer the church door. Hermit Job raised his hand and a dead 
silence fell upon the waiting people as he began to speak. "Last 
night while all the earth slept, I kept vigil in my rocky cave in yonder 
forest. For seven days and seven nights I had kept the vigil, fasting 
and praying without ceasing that Christ would once more visit the 
world and judge his people. Too weak to stand, I lay with my face 
to the ground and moaned, 'How long, O Lord, how long must thy 
people wait?' Then suddenly there shone around me a most won- 
drous, dazzling light and I looked up and beheld an angel, clothed in 
white, standing before me. And as 1 gazed, speechless with awe, the 
vision spake and said, 'Job, thy prayer hath been heard, and thy 
desire shall be granted. At Christmastide, the Master will again 
visit the world and judge His children. Arise, eat and drink, and go 
into the village beyond and make known his coming to the people, 
that they may have all things ready and meet to receive Him. Be 
ye his messenger.' Then faded the vision and I was left alone." 

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For a full minute after the hermit had ended, the people stood 
breathless, then they began to question him eagerly. 

"Where shall we most fittingly receive Him?" "How shall we 
prepare for His coming?" "When will — " 

"Ask me not," interrupted the hermit, "I cannot say. I de- 
livered unto you the message as I received it. More I cannot do." 
Descending the steps he swept his long arm from side to side, clearing 
a way for himself. Passing through the lane thus formed he made 
his way back to the forest. 

The people stood in silence watching the tall figure till it faded 
from their sight, then they returned to the making of their plans for 
the great day. 

" The wise men of yore prepared gifts for the Christ,'^ said one old 
man. "Should we not do likewise?" 

"That is a good thought," answered another. "Let each prepare 
the best gift he can." 

- "Where shall we bring our gifts?" asked one. 

"Here to the church. Is it not His house?" replied the oldest 
man in the village. "W^hat place could be more fitting?" 

"Let each bring his gift here and leave it secretly," said the 
miser. "Then none need feel cast down if his gift be not as fine as 
others, for no one will know what another brings." This he said, not 
because he had pity on the poor man who could bring but a small 
gift, but because he sought thus to hide the meanness of the gift he 
thought to offer. 

"Not so, not so, I say. Let each man bear his own gift. Then 
shall the master see who has used his talent most wisely." Thus spake 
the richest man in the village, for he wanted his good works to be 
seen and praised of all men. 

So it came to pass, that after much talking, it was decided that 
every man should bring his gift to the church on Christmas morning 
and there await the coming of the Master. 

While the people talked and planned, good Father Anthony 
look down upon them with eyes full of kindness and love, but he 
refused to take any part in the discussion. Before leaving the church 
the people knelt for his blessing and as he dismissed them, the good 
priest said, "Remember, my children, that it is written only the pure 

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in heart shall see God. Ye have more than gifts to prepare." But the 
people were so eager to get to their homes and think of their gifts 
that they hardly heeded the words of Father Anthony. 

For days there was nothing talked of but the great and wonder- 
ful news the hermit had brought and the gifts each was preparing. 
The sad truth must be told, — this season, that should have been full 
of joy and gladness, was a time of bitterness and striving, each man 
eager to outdo his neighbor and prepare a finer gift. Only one man 
went on in his usual way. This was Blind Bartimseus. When asked 
what gift he would bring, he always answered, "The best that I have; 
perchance a loaf or two of barley bread and a little honey." 

Then his neighbors forgot Blind Bartimseus' affliction and his 
brave, cheerful life and mocked him, saying, "Great gifts these to 
bring to the Master!" 

"Aye," answered the blind man, "they are small and most un- 
worthy, but He scorned not the loaves a7id fishes in the desert, but used 
them to His honor and glory; so perhaps He may even accept my 
humble offering, knowing that it is my best and that I give it freely 
from mv heart." 



On Christmas Eve, just as the dusk was closing down, a beggar 
boy entered the village. His clothes were worn and ragged, and his 
little feet were bare. He shivered in the cold blast. He was hungry, 
wayworn and weary. The first house on the street was the rich 
man's. Here the boy stopped and asked for food and shelter. 

"Come to-morrow," answered the rich man, not unkindly, "to- 
night I am too busy getting ready my Christmas gifts to attend to 
anything else." 

The next house was the miser's. Here the boy was ordered off 
with threats and angry words, for the miser was so torn between 
the desire to save his possessions and the desire to outdo the rich 
man in his gift that he was cross and fretful. 

So from house to house wandered the child, but no one had time 
to listen to his story or relieve his distress. To be sure, after sending 
the boy away, neighbor Tyne's heart pricked him and he went again 
to his door to call the beggar boy back, but he saw him enter the 

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if^f 



little cottage of Blind Bartimseus, and knew that all was well with 



the child. 



Christmas morning broke bright and clear, and at the ringing of 
the bell the people gathered in the church, bringing their gifts with 
them. Good Father Anthony looked at them with a shadow on his 
face, for he saw plainly that the gifts were not brought for love of the 
Master, but for the glory of men. Blind Bartimtieus was the last 
man to enter the church and he came with empty hands. 

"What means this?" cried his neighbors. "Where is your gift? 
What will you do when the Master conies?" 

"The Master has come and I — I, Blind Bartimseus, have seen 
him with these eyes." 

"Has come? You have seen him? What mean ye?" cried the 
people, closing around the blind man. 

Father Anthony stepped to the side of Blind Bartimseus and, 
taking his hand, said, "Stand back, my children, and let the man tell 
his story." 

"I had prepared my gift — two barley loaves and a little honey," 
began the blind man, "and had it ready to bring here to-day. Last 
night as I sat at my fireside dreaming of the great joy to come I heard 
a timid knock at my door. I opened it and there stood a poor child 
almost perishing for food and warmth. For a moment I hardened 
my heart against his plea for help. I had nothing in the house but 
the Master's gift, — and, O my friends, if ye only knew what that 
meant to me! For fifty years I had waited for the coming of the 
Master. For weeks I had been telling myself that if my gift found 
favor in His sight, He might, indeed, open my blind eyes. How could 
I part with my gift — perhaps my only chance of healing — to an un- 
known beggar boy ! But when I placed my hand on the little ragged 
:'acket and felt the child shiver, I could withhold the gift no longer. 
I bade the lad throw aside his wet clothing and wrapped him in my 
cloak and fed him. After his meal, as he sat on my knee before the 
fire and I felt the soft little body now comforted and warm, within 
my arms, a great joy and peace crept into my heart, for, friends, I 
have been lonely ever, and I said softly, 'Wilt stay with me always 
and be eyes to old Blind Bartimgeus, my lad?' 'Aye,' he whispered, 

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and lifted his hand and touched my eyelids with his little fingers and, 
as he did so, methonght I heard a voice saying, 'Look up, Blind Barti- 
mfcus,' and I looked up and behold, I saw, and my poor little room 
was filled with a wondrous light and in the midst of the light stood a 
vision all glorious and I knew it was the Master, for none other could 
have such loving, pitying eyes ! And the Vision Glorious pointed to the 
child in my arms and said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unio the least 
of one of those, ye have done it unto me' and lo, while the voice still 
sounded in mine ears, the vision vanished, but I heard most wonder- 
ful music as of a choir invisible singing: 

'Blessed are they, whose thoughts in deeds find wing, 
Whose hands the gifts of love and mercy bring, 
And in his lowliest children see their king. 

'Blessed are they who hear the Master plead 
In every cry of sorrow or of need, 
Lo, to their hearts the Lord has come indeed.' 

Then all was dark and still again. But in my heart was music 
and joy, for in my arms I held a little child, whose arms clasped my 
neck, and I — even I, — Blind Bartimseus, had seen the Lord." 

The people had listened in breathless silence while the story was 
being told, then with a sob, the rich man spoke. *'Here, neighbor, 
take my gift. It is for the boy. Verily, ye only have shown the true 
spirit of Christ. Take the gift in His name." 

Others followed and left their gifts at the feet of Bartimteus and 
Father Anthony to be used for the Master's poor. Only the miser 
hugged his gift closer and said, "Nonsense! The blind man deceives 
ye. Think ye the Master would visit his poor dwelling.? I tell ye 
he but dreamed the story." 

"Nay, not so," said Father Anthony. " Twas no dream. Well 
ye all know that the promise is that the pure in heart shall see God. 
Blind Bartimteus hath looked upon the Vision Glorious, — ^Blind 
Bartimseus hath seen the Christ." 



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"poor Oravelers 

{Adapted from Charles Dickens) 

^^^EANWHILE, by their sparkling liglit, which threw our lamp 
^ii into the shade, I filled the glasses, and gave my Travelers, 
"Christmas ! — Christmas Eve, my friends, when the shepherds, 
who were Poor Travelers, too, in their way, heard the Angels sing, 
'On earth, peace, Good- will toward men!'" 

It was the witching time for Storytelling. "Our whole life. 
Travelers," said I, "is a story more or less intelligible — generally less; 
but we shall read it by a clearer light when it is ended. I, for one, 
am so divided this night between fact and fiction, that I scarce know 
which is which. Shall I beguile the time by telling you a story as 
we sit here?" 

They all answered, " Yes." I had little to tell them, but I was 
bound by my own proposal. Therefore, after looking for a while at 
the spiral column of smoke wreathing up from my brown beauty, 
through which I could have almost sworn I saw the effigy of Master 
Richard Watts, less startled than usual, I fired away. 

THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK 

In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety nine, a 
relative of mine came limping down on foot to this town of Chatham. 
He was a poor traveler, with not a farthing in his pocket. 

My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in a cavalry regi- 
ment, if a cavalry regiment would have him. His object was to get 
shot, but he thought he might as well ride to death as be at the trouble 
of walking. 

My relative's Christian name was Richard, but he was better 
known as Dick. He dropped his own surname on the road down, and 
took up that of Doubledick. He was passed as Richard Doubledick; 
age, twenty-two; height, five feet ten; native place, Exmouth, which 
he had never been near in his life. There was no cavalry in Chatham, 
when he limped over the bridge here with half a shoe to his dusty 

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foot, so he enlisted into a regiment of the Hne, and was glad to get 
drunk and forget all about it. 

You are to know that this relative of mine had gone wrong, and 
run wild. His heart was in the right place, but it was sealed up. He 
had been betrothed to a good and beautiful girl, whom he had loved 
better than she — or perhaps even he believed; but in an evil hour he 
had given her cause to say to him solemnly, "Richard, I will never 
marry any other man. I will live single for your sake, but Mary 
Marshall's lips," — her name was Mary Marshall, — "will never address 
another word to you on earth. Go Richard! Heaven forgive you!" 
This finished him. This brought him down to Chatham, This made 
him Private Richard Doubledick, with a determination to be shot. 

There was not a more dissipated and reckless soldier in Chatham 
barracks, in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety nine, 
than Private Richard Doubledick. He associated with the dregs of 
every regiment; he was as seldom sober as he could be, and was 
constantly under punishment. It became clear to the whole barracks 
that Private Richard Doubledick would very soon be flogged. 

Now, the captain of Richard Doubledick's company was a young 
gentleman not above five years his senior, whose eyes had an expres- 
sion in them which affected Private Richard Doubledick, in a very 
remarkable way. They were bright, handsome, dark eyes, what are 
called laughing eyes generally, and, when serious, rather steady than 
severe — but they were the only eyes now left in his narrowed world 
that Private Richard Doubledick could not stand. In his worst 
moments, he would rather turn back and go any distance out of his 
way, than encounter those two handsome, dark, bright eyes. 

One day, when Private Richard Doubledick came out of the 
Black-hole, where he had been passing the last eight and forty hours, 
and in which retreat he spent a good deal of his time, he was ordered 
to betake himself to Captain Taunton's quarters. In the stale and 
squalid state of a man just out of the Black-hole, he had less fancy 
than ever for being seen by the Captain; but he was not so mad yet 
as to disobey orders, and consequently went up to the terrace over- 
looking the parade ground, where the officers' quarters were; twisting 
and breaking in his hands, as he went along, a bit of the straw that 
had formed the decorative furniture of the Black-hole. 

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"Come in," cried the Captain, when he knocked with his knuckles 
at the door. Private Richard Doubledick pulled off his cap, took a 
stride forward, and felt very conscious that he stood in the light of 
the dark, bright eyes. 

There was a silent pause. Private Richard Doubledick had put 
the straw in his mouth, and was gradually doubling it up into his 
windpipe and choking himself. 

"Doubledick," said the Captain, "do you know where you are 
going to.? 

"To the Devil, sir?" faltered Doubledick. 

"Yes," returned the Captain. "And very fast." 

Private Richard Doubledick turned the straw of the Black-hole 
in his mouth, and made a miserable salute of acquiescence. 

"Doubledick," said the Captain, "since I entered his Majesty's 
service, a boy of seventeen, I have been pained to see many men of 
promise going that road; but I have never been so pained to see a 
man determined to make the shameful journey as I have been, ever 
since you joined the regiment, to see you." 

Private Richard Doubledick began to find a film stealing over 
the floor at which he looked; also to find the legs of the Captain's 
breakfast table turning crooked, as if he saw them through water. 

"I am only a common soldier, sir," said he. "It signifies very 
little what such a poor brute comes to." 

"You are a man," returned the Captain with grave indignation, 
"of education and superior advantages; and if you say that, meaning 
what you say, you have sunk lower than I had believed. How low 
that must be— I leave you to consider; knowing what I know of your 
disgrace, and seeing what I see." 

"I hope to get shot soon, sir," said Private Richard Doubledick, 
"and then the regiment and the world together will be rid of me." 

The legs of the table were becoming very crooked. Doubledick, 
looking up to steady his vision, met the eyes that had so strong an 
influence over him. He put his hand before his own eyes, and the 
breast of his disgraced jacket swelled as if it would fly asunder. 

" I would rather," said the young Captain," see this in you, Double- 
dick, than I would see five thousand guineas counted out upon this 
table for a gift to my good mother. Have you a mother.'^" 

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"I am thankful to say she is dead, sir." 

*Tf your praises," returned the Captain, "were sounded from 
mouth to mouth, through the whole regiment, through the whole 
army, through the whole country, you would wish she had lived to say, 
with pride and joy, 'He is my son!' " 

"Spare me, sir," said Doubledick. "She would never have 
heard any good of me. She would never have had any pride and joy 
in owning herself my mother. Love and compassion she might have 
had, and would have always had, I know; but not — spare me, sir! 
I am a broken wretch, quite at your mercy!" And he turned his face 
to the wall, and stretched out his imploring hand. 

"My friend— " began the Captain. 

"God bless you, sir," sobbed Private Richard Doubledick. 

"You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold your course unchanged 
a little longer, and you know what must happen. I know even better 
than you can imagine, that, after that has happened, you are lost. 
No man who could shed those tears could bear those marks." 

"I fully believe it, sir," in a low, shivering voice, said Private 
Richard Doubledick. 

"But a man in any station can do his duty," said the young 
Captain, "and, in doing it can earn his own respect, even if his case 
should be so very unfortunate and so very rare that he can earn no 
other man's. A common soldier, poor brute though you called him 
just now, has this advantage in the stormy times we live in, that he 
always does his duty before a host of sympathizing witnesses. Do 
you doubt that he may so do it as to be extolled through a whole 
regiment, through a whole army, through a whole country .^^ Turn 
while you may yet retrieve the past, and try." 

"I will! I ask for only one witness, sir," cried Richard, with a 
bursting heart. 

"I understand you. I will be a watchful and a faithful one." 

I have heard from Private Richard Doubledick's own lips, that 
he dropped down upon his knee, kissed that officer's hand, arose and 
went out of the light of the dark, bright eyes, an altered man. 

In that year. One thousand seven hundred and ninety nine, the 
French were in Egypt, in Italy, in Germany, where not.^^ Napoleon 
Bonaparte had likewise begun to stir against us in India, and most 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



men could read the signs of the great troubles that were coming on. 
In the very next year when we formed an alliance with Austria against 
him. Captain Taunton's regiment was on service in India. And there 
was not a finer non-commissioned officer in it, no, nor in the whole 
line — than Corporal Richard Doubledick. 

In Eighteen hundred and one, the Indian army were on the coast 
of Egypt. Next year was the year of the proclamation of the short 
peace, and they were recalled. It had then become well known to 
thousands of men that wherever Captain Taunton, with the dark 
bright eyes, led, there, close to him, ever at his side, firm as a rock, 
true as the sun, and brave as Mars, would be certain to be found, 
while life beat in their hearts, that famous soldier. Sergeant Richard 
Doubledick. 

Eighteen hundred and five, besides being the great year of 
Trafalgar, was a year of hard fighting in India. That year saw such 
wonders done by a Sergeant-major, who cut his way single-handed 
through a solid mass of men, recovered the colors of his regiment, 
which had been seized from the hand of a poor boy shot through the 
heart, and rescued his wounded captain, who was down and in a very 
jungle of horses, hoofs and sabres — saw such wonders done, I say, 
by this brave Sergeant-major, that he was specially made the bearer 
of the colors he had won; and Ensign Richard Doubledick had risen 
from the ranks. 

Sorely cut up in every battle, but always reinforced by the 
bravest of men— for the fame of following the old colors, shot through 
and through, which Ensign Richard Doubledick had saved, inspired 
all breasts—this regiment fought its way through the Peninsular war 
up to the investment of Badajos in eighteen hundred and twelve. 
Again and again it had been cheered through the British ranks until 
the tears had sprung into men's eyes at the mere hearing of the mighty 
British voice so exultant in their valor; and there was not a drummer 
boy but knew the legend, that wherever the two friends. Major 
Taunton with the dark bright eyes, and Ensign Richard Doubledick, 
who was devoted to him, were seen to go, there the boldest spirits in 
the English army became wild to follow. 

One day, at Badajos, the two officers found themselves hurrying 
forward, face to face against a party of French infantry, who made a 

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stand. There was an officer at their head, encouraging his men — a 
conrageoiis, handsome, gallant officer of five and thirty, whom Donble- 
dick saw hurriedly, almost momentarily, but saw well. He partic- 
ularly noticed this officer waving his sword, and rallying his men 
with an eager and excited cry, when they fired in obedience to his 
gesture, and Major Taunton dropped. 

It was over in ten minutes more, and Doubledick returned to the 
spot where he had laid the best friend man ever had on a coat spread 
upon the wet clay. Major Taunton's uniform was opened at the 
breast, and on his shirt were three little spots of blood. 

"Dear Doubledick," said he, "I am dying." 

"For the love of Heaven, no!" exclaimed the other, kneeling 
down beside him, and passing his arm round his neck to raise his 
head. "Taunton! My preserver, my guardian angel, my witness! 
Dearest, truest, kindest of human beings! Taunton! For God's 
sake!" 

The bright, dark eyes — so very, very dark now, in the pale face — 
smiled upon him; and the hand he had kissed thirteen years ago laid 
itself fondly on his breast. 

"Write to my mother. You will see Home again. Tell her how 
we became friends. It will comfort her as it comforts me!" 

He spoke no more, but faintly signed for a moment toward his 
hair as it fluttered in the wind. The Ensign understood him. He 
smiled again when he saw that, and gently turning his face over on 
the supporting arm, as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the breast 
in which he had revived a soul. 

No dry eye looked on Ensign Richard Doubledick that mel- 
ancholy day. He buried his friend on the field, and became a lone, 
bereaved man. Beyond his duty he appeared to have but two re- 
maining cares in life, — one, to preserve the little packet of hair he was 
to give to Taunton's mother; the other to encounter that French 
officer who had rallied the men under whose fire Taunton fell. A new 
legend now began to circulate among our troops; and it was, that 
when he and the French officer came face to face once more, there 
would be weeping in France. 

The war went on — and through it went the exact picture of the 
French officer on the one side, and the bodily reality on the other — 

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until the battle of Toulouse was fought. In the return sent home 
appeqired these words: "Severely wounded, but not dangerously. 
Lieutenant Richard Doubledick." 

At Midsummer time in the year eighteen hundred and fourteen. 
Lieutenant Richard Doubledick, now a browned soldier, seven and 
thirty years of age, came home to England invalided. He brought 
the hair with him, near his heart. 

Though he was weak and suffered pain he lost not an hour in 
getting down to Frome in Somersetshire, where Taunton's mother 
lived. In the sweet, compassionate words that naturally present 
themselves to the mind to-night, "he was the only son of his mother, 
and she was a widow." 

It was a Sunday evening, and the lady sat at her quiet garden 
window, reading the Bible; reading to herself, in a trembling voice, 
that very passage in it, as I have heard him tell. He heard the words, 
"Young man, I say unto thee, arise!" 

-He had to pass the window. Her heart told her who he was; 
she came to the door quickly, and fell upon his neck. 

"He saved me from ruin, made me a human creature, won me 
from infamy and shame. Oh, God forever bless him ! As he will, he will !" 

" He will ! " the lady answered. "I know he is in Heaven ! " Then 
she piteously cried, "But, oh, my darling boy, my darling boy!" 

Never from the hour when Private Richard Doubledick enlisted 
at Chatham had the Private, Corporal, Sergeant, Sergeant-major, 
Ensign or Lieutenant breathed his right name, or the name of Mary 
Marshall, or a word of the story of his life, into any ear except his 
reclaimer's. That previous scene in his existence was closed. 

But that night, remembering the words he had chei'ished for two 
years, "Tell her how we became friends. It will comfort her as it 
comforts me," he related everything. It gradually seemed to him as 
if in his maturity he had recovered a mother; it gradually seemed to 
her as if in her bereavement she had found a son. During his stay in 
England, the quiet garden into which he had slowly and painfully 
crept, a stranger, became the boundary of his home. When he was 
able to rejoin his regiment in the spring, he left the garden, thinking 
this was indeed the first time he had ever turned his face toward the 
old colors with a woman's blessing! 

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He followed them — so ragged, so scarred, and pierced now, that 
they would scarcely hold together — to Quatre Bras and Ligny. He 
stood beside them in an awful stillness of many men, shadowy through 
the mist and drizzle of a wet June forenoon, on the field of Waterloo. 
And down to that hour the picture in his mind of the French officer 
had never been compared with the reality. 

The famous regiment was in action early in the battle, and 
received its first check in many an eventful year, when he was seen 
to fall. But it swept on to avenge him, and left behind it no such 
creature in the world of consciousness as Lieutenant Richard 
Doubledick. 

Through pits of mire, and pools of rain; along deep ditches, 
once roads, that were pounded and plowed to pieces by artillery, heavy 
wagons, tramp of men and horses, and the struggle of every wheeled 
thing that could carry wounded soldiers; — the form that had been 
Lieutenant Richard Doubledick, with whose praises England rang, 
was conveyed to Brussels. There it was tenderly laid down in the 
hospital; and there it lay, week after week, through the long bright 
summer days, until the harvest, spared by war, had ripened and was 
gathered in. 

Slowly laboring at last through a long heavy dream of confused 
time and place, presenting faint glimpses of army surgeons whom he 
knew; and of faces that had been familiar to his youth — dearest and 
kindest among them Mary Marshall's, with a solicitude upon it more 
like reality than anything he could discern — Lieutenant Richard 
Doubledick came back to life. To the beautiful life of a calm, autumn 
evening sunset, to the peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with a large 
window standing open; a balcony beyond in which were moving 
leaves and sweet smelling flowers; beyond, again, the clear sky, with 
the sun full in his sight, pouring its golden radiance on his bed. 

It was so tranquil and so lovely that he thought he had passed 
into another world. And he said in a faint voice, "Taunton, are you 
near me?" A face bent over him. Not his, his mother's. 

"I came to nurse you. We have nursed you many weeks. You 
were moved here long ago. Do you remember nothing?" 

"Nothing." 

The lady kissed his cheek, and held his hand, soothing him. 

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"Where is the regiment? What has happened? Let me call you 
mother. What has happened, mother?" 

"A great victory, dear. The war is over, and the regiment was 
the bravest in the field." 

His eyes kindled, his lips trembled, he sobbed, and the tears ran 
down his face. He was very weak, too weak to move his hand. 

"W'as it dark just now?" he asked, presently. 

"No." 

"It was only dark to me? Something passed away like a black 
shadow. But as it went, and the sun — O the blessed sun, how beauti- 
ful it is ! — touched my face, I thought I saw a light white cloud pass 
out at the door. Was there nothing that went out?" 

She shook her head, and in a little while he fell asleep, she still 
holding his hand and soothing him. 

From that time he recovered. Slowly, for he had been desperately 
wounded in the head, and had been shot in the body, but making some 
littfe advance every day. When he had gained sufficient strength to 
converse as he lay in bed, he soon began to remark that Mrs. Taunton 
always brought him back to his own history. Then he recalled his 
preserver's dying words, and thought, "it comforts her." 

One day he awoke out of a sleep, refreshed, and asked her to read 
to him. But the curtain of the bed softening the light, which she 
always drew back when he awoke, that she might see him from her 
table at the bedside, where she sat at work, was held undrawn ; and a 
woman's voice spoke, which was not her's. 

"Can you bear to see a stranger?" it said softly. "Will you like 
to see a stranger?" 

"Stranger?" he repeated. The voice awoke old memories 
before the days of Private Richard Doubledick. 

"A stranger now, but not a stranger once," it said in tones that 
thrilled him. "Richard, dear Richard, lost through so many years, 
my name — " 

He cried out her name, "Mary," and she held him in her arms, 
and his head lay on her bosom. 

"I am not breaking a rash vow, Richard. These are not Mary 
Marshall's lips that speak. I have another name." 

She was married. 

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"I have another name, Richard. Did you ever hear it?" 

"Never!" 

He looked into her face, so pensively beautiful, and wondered 
at the smile upon it through her tears. 

"Think again, Richard. Are you sure you never heard my 
altered name?" 

"Never." 

"Don't move your head to look at me, dear Richard. Let it lie 
here while I tell my story. I loved a generous, noble man; loved him 
with my whole heart; loved him for years and years, loved him faith- 
fully and devotedly; loved him with no hope of return, loved him, 
knowing nothing of his highest qualities — not even knowing that he 
was alive. He was a brave soldier. He was honored and beloved by 
thousands of thousands, when the mother of his dear friend found me, 
and showed me that in all his triumphs he had never forgotten me. 
He was wounded in a great battle. He was brought dying, here, into 
Brussels. I came to watch and tend him, as I would have joyfully 
gone with such a purpose, to the dreariest ends of the earth. When 
he knew no one else, he knew me. When he suffered most, he bore 
his sufferings barely murmuring, content to rest his head where yours 
rests now. When he lay at the point of death he married me, that 
he might call me Wife before he died. And the name, my dear love, 
that I took on that forgotten night, — " 

"I know it now!" he sobbed. "The shadowy remembrance 
strengthens. It is come back. I thank Heaven that my mind is 
quite restored. My Mary, kiss me; lull this weary head to rest, or 
I shall die of gratitude. His parting words are fulfilled. I see Home 
again!" 

Well! They were happy. It was a long recovery, but they were 
happy through it all. The snow had melted on the ground, and the 
birds were singing in the leafless thickets of the early spring, when 
those three were first able to ride out together, and when people flocked 
about the open carriage to cheer and congratulate Captain Richard 
Doubledick. 

But even then it became necessary for the Captain, instead of 
returning to England, to complete his recovery in the climate of 
Southern France. They found a spot upon the Rhine, within a ride 

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of the old town of Avignon, and within view of its broken bridge, 
which was all that they could desire; they lived there together six 
months; then returned to England. Mrs. Taunton, growing old 
after three years — and remembering that her strength had been 
benefited by the change, resolved to go back for a year to those parts. 
So she went with a faithful servant, who had often carried her son in 
his arms; and she was to be rejoined and escorted home, at the year's 
end, by Captain Richard Doubledick. 

She went to the neighborhood of Aix; and there, in their own 
chateau near the farmer's house she rented, she grew into intimacy 
with a family belong to that part of France. The intimacy began 
in her often meeting among the vineyards a pretty child, a girl with a 
most compassionate heart, who was never tired of listening to the 
solitary English lady's stories of her poor son and the cruel wars. The 
family were as gentle as the child and at length she came to know 
them so well that she accepted their invitation to pass the last month 
of "her residence abroad under their roof. All this intelligence she 
wrote home piecemeal, as it came about from time to time; and at 
last enclosed a polite note from the head of the chateau, soliciting on 
the occasion of his approaching mission to that neighborhood, the 
honor of the company of cet homme si justment celebre. Monsieur 
Capiiaine Richard Douhledick. 

Captain Doubledick, now a hardy, handsome man, in the full 
vigor of life, broader across the chest and shoulders than he had ever 
been before, dispatched a courteous reply and followed it in person. 
Traveling through the country after three years of peace brought him 
to the chateau near Aix upon a deep blue evening. The entrance 
doors stood open as doors often do in that country w^hen the heat of 
the day is past; and the Captain saw no bell or knocker, and walked in. 

He walked into a lofty stone hall, refreshingly cool and gloomy 
after the glare of a Southern day's travel. Extending along the four 
sides of this hall was a gallery, leading to suites of rooms; and it was 
lighted from the top. Still no bell was to be seen. 

"Faith," said the Captain, halting, ashamed of the clanking of 
his boots, "This is a ghostly beginning." 

He started back, and felt his face turn white. In the gallery 
looking down at him, stood the French officer, — the officer whose 

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picture he had carried in his mind so long and so far. Compared with 
the original, at last — in every lineament how like it was! 

He moved and disappeared, and Captain Richard Doubledick 
heard his steps, coming quickly down the hall. He entered through 
an archwaj'. There was a bright, sudden look upon his face, much 
such a look as it had worn in that fatal moment. 

Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick? Enchanted to 
receive him. A thousand apologies. The servants were all oat in 
the air. There was a little fete among them on in the garden. In effect 
it was the fete day of my daughter, the little cherished and protected 
of Madame Taunton. 

He was so gracious and so frank that Monsieur le Capitaine 
Richard Doubledick could not withhold his hand. 'Tt is the hand 
of a brave Englishman," said the French officer, retaining it while 
he spoke. "I could respect a brave Englishman, even as my foe, 
how much more as my friend. I also am a soldier." 

"He has not remembered me as I have remembered him; he 
did not take such note of my face, that day, as I took of his," thought 
Captain Richard Doubledick. " How shall I tell him?" 

The French officer conducted his guest into a garden, and pre- 
sented him to his wife, an engaging and beautiful woman, sitting 
with Mrs. Taunton in a whimsical old-fashioned pavilion. His 
daughter, her fair young face beaming with joy, came running to 
embrace him; and there was a boy baby to tumble down among the 
orange trees on the broad steps, in making for his father's legs. A 
multitude of children visitors were dancing to sprightly music; and 
all the servants and peasants about the chateau were dancing too. 
It was a scene of innocent happiness that might have been invented 
for the climax of the scenes of Peace which had soothed the Captain's 
journey. 

He looked on greatly troubled in his mind, until a resounding 
bell rang, and the French officer begged to show him his rooms. They 
went upstairs into the gallery from which the officer had looked 
down, and Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick was cordially 
welcomed to a grand outer chamber, and a smaller one, within, all 
clocks, and draperies and hearths, and brazen dogs, and tiles, and 
cool devices, and elegance and vastness. 

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"You were at Waterloo," said the French officer. 

"I was," said Captain Richard Doubledick. "And at Badajos.** 

Left alone with the sound of his own stern voice in his ears, he 
sat down to consider. What shall I do, and how shall I tell him? At 
that time, unhappily, many deplorable duels had been fought between 
English and French officers, arising out of the recent war; and these 
duels, and how to avoid this officer's hospitality, were the upper- 
most thoughts in Captain Richard Doubledick's mind. 

He was thinking, and letting the time run out in which he should 
have dressed for dinner, when Mrs. Taunton spoke to him outside 
the door, asking if he could give her the letter he had brought from 
Mary. "His mother, above all," the Captain thought. "How shall 
I teW her?" 

"You will form a friendship with your host, I hope," said Mrs. 
Taunton, whom he hurriedly admitted, "that will last for life. He 
is so true-hearted and so generous, Richard, that you can hardly fail 
ta esteem each other. If He had been spared," she kissed (not with- 
out tears), the locket in which she wore his hair, "He would have 
appreciated him with his own magnanimity, and would have been 
truly happy that the evil days were past which made such a man 
his enemy." 

She left the room, and the Captain walked, first to one window, 
whence he could see the dancing in the garden, then to another window, 
whence he could see the smiling prospect and the peaceful vineyards. 

"Spirit of my departed friend," said he, "is it through thee 
these bitter thoughts are rising in my mind.'* Is it thou who has 
sent thy stricken mother to me to stay my angry hand.'* Is it from 
thee the whisper comes, that this man did his duty as thou didst — - 
and as I did, through thy guidance, which has wholly saved me here 
on earth — and that he did no more.''" 

He sat down with his head buried in his hands, and when he rose 
up made the second strong resolution of his life — that neither to the 
French officer, nor to the mother of his departed friend, nor to any 
soul while either of the two were living, would be breathe what only 
he knew. And when he touched that French officer's glass with his 
own, that day at dinner, he secretly forgave him in the name of the 
Divine Forgiver of injuries. 

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^ !^op's Visit to Sanla (tiaus 

!6]p 5\lcl)ard I5l)0ma5 '^^cl)^ 

ONCE upon a time there was a little boy who talked a great 
deal about Santa Claus. He talked to his father, his mother, 
his brother and his sisters, until it was Santa Claus at the 
breakfast table, Santa Claus at dinner and Santa Claus at supper. 
This little boy had been told that far away in the Northland lived 
Santa Claus. He was sitting by the fire one day watching the 
embers glow, and seeing castles in the glowing embers. There is 
Santa Claus' house, he said, the great building covered with snow. 
"Why can't I go to see him.?" 

The little boy had saved some money so he went down to the 
depot, bought a ticket, and before his father or mother knew about 
it was gone to see Santa Claus. He traveled a long time on the 
train, and by and by reached the end of the railroad. He could go 
no farther on the train for there was a great wide ocean, but people 
crossed the ocean and so must the little boy, or at least a part of it, 
in order to reach Santa Claus' land. There was a great ship lying 
in port soon to sail over the seas, and along with many people who 
went aboard the ship, went the little boy. Soon every sail was spread 
and out from the port went the ship leaving far behind them the town. 

The ship sailed and sailed a long time, and finally they had 
reached an island lying somewhere far out in the midseas. Some of 
the people went ashore and so did the little boy. But what a funny 
land it was to the little boy — all the people were little people. The 
grown men were not taller than the little boy, and they rode little 
ponies that were not larger than dogs. The little boy asked, "What 
land is this, does Santa Claus live here?" And they said, "No." 

"This is the land that lies east of the sun 

And west of the moon. 

You have not come too soon. 

Northward you must go 

To the land of ice and snow." 



•From "Some Great Stories and How to Tell Them," by R. T. Wyche; Newson & Company, New York. 

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And so one day the little boy found a ship that was goinj? to 
sail to the Northland and in this ship he went. The ship sailed 
and sailed a long time until it finally came to where the sea was all 
frozen over, to the land of icebergs and snow fields. The ship could 
go no farther, so what do you suppose the little boy did then.'' He 
was in the land of the reindeer, and over the snow fields he went in 
search of Santa Clans. 

One day, as he was traveling over the snow fields to find Santa 
Clans' house, he saw not far away what at first seemed to be a hill, 
but soon he saw that it was not a hill, but a house covered with ice 
and snow. "That must be Santa Clans' house," he said. Soon 
the little boy was standing in front of the great building whose towers 
seemed to reach the sky. Vp the shining steps he went and soon 
he was standing in front of the door. The little boy saw no door 
bell and so he knocked on the door. No one answered, and then 
louder he knocked again. Still no one answered. He began to feel 
afraid; perhaps this was the house of a giant. If Santa Claus lived 
there, he might be angry with him for coming, but once more he 
knocked. And then he heard a voice far down at the other end of 
the hall. Some one was coming. Then suddenly the latch went 
"click," and the door stood wide open and who do you suppose was 
there .^ Santa Claus.^^ No; a little boy with blue eyes and a bright 
sweet face. Then the little boy said, "Good morning. Does Santa 
Claus live here.^*" And the other little boy said, "Yes. Come in, 
come in, I am Santa Claus' little boy." He took him by the hand 
and said, "I am very glad to see you." 

Then the two little boys walked down the long hallway, doors 
on this side and doors on that, until they came to the last door on the 
left-hand side. On this door Santa Claus' little boy knocked, and 
a great voice said, "Come in." He opened the door and walked in, 
and who do you suppose was there.f* Santa Clans.'* Yes, there was 
Santa Claus himself; a great big fat man sitting by the fire, with 
long white beard, blue eyes, and the merriest, cheeriest face you 
ever saw. The Santa Clans' little boy said, "Father, here is a little 
boy who has come to see you." Santa Claus looked down over his 
spectacles and said, "Well, how are you.'' I am mighty glad to see 
you. Yes, yes, I know him. I have been to his house on many a 

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night and filled up his stocking. How are Elizabeth and Louise 
and Katherine?" Over on the other side of the fire-place sat Mrs. 
Santa Clans. She was a grandmother-looking woman, with white 
hair and gold-rimmed spectacles. She was sitting by the fire knitting; 
she put her arms around the little boy and kissed him. 

Then the two little boys sat down in front of the fire and talked 
together. By and by, Santa Claus' little boy said to the other little 
boy, "Don't you want to go over the building and see what we have 
in the. different rooms.'* This building has a thousand rooms." And 
the little boy said, " Who-o-o-o-e." And Santa Claus' little boy 
said, "Yes, and something different in every room." 

Then they went in a large room and what do you suppose was 
in there .f^ Nothing but doll babies; some with long dresses and 
some with short; some with black eyes and some with blue. Then 
into another room they went, and it was full of toys, wagons and 
horses; another room was full of story books; another room was a 
candy kitchen where Santa Claus made candy; another room was 
a workshop where Santa Claus made toys for the children. Then 
they went in a long, large room, the largest of them all, and in this 
room were a great many tables. On these tables were suits, cloaks 
and hats and shoes and stockings for the children. 

The little boy wanted to know what they did with so many clothes, 
and Santa Claus' little boy said, "We take these to the little children 
who have no father or mother to make them clothes." And so they 
went through all the rooms of the great building, except one, which 
was away upstairs in the corner. What was in this room no one 
would tell the little boy, nor would they take him into the room. 
And the little boy wondered what was in the room. 

The little boy stayed at Santa Claus' house several days and 
he had a splendid time. Some days the two little boys would slide 
down the hill on a sled, some days they would hitch up the reindeer 
and go sleighing, some days they would go into the candy kitchen 
and help Santa Claus make candy or into the workshop and help 
him make toys. But one day something happened. Santa Claus 
came to the little boy and said, "I am going away today for a little 
while; my wife and my little boy are going with me. Now," he said, 
"you can go with us or you can stay here and keep house for us 

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while we are gone." The little boy thought to himself that Santa 
Claus had been so good to him that he would stay and keep house 
while Santa Claus was away. So he said he would stay and then 
Santa Claus gave him a great bunch of keys and said, "Now you 
can go in all the rooms and play, but you must not go in that room 
upstairs in the corner." The little boy said, "All right," and with 
that, Santa Claus, his wife and his little boy went down the steps, 
got into the sleigh,, wrapped themselves up in furs, popped the whip 
and away they went! The little boy stood and watched them until 
they disappeared behind the snow hills. 

Then he turned and went back into the house. He felt like a 
little man in that great house all by himself. From room to room 
he went. He went into the game room and rolled the balls. Some 
of the balls were so large that they were as high as the little boy's 
head. They were of rubber, and if you would drop one from the 
top of the house it would bounce clear back to the top. The little 
boy went into the candy kitchen and ate some of the candy. He 
went into the workshop and worked on some toys, then into the 
library and read some of the books, then into the parlor and banged 
on the piano. 

But after a while, the little boy was tired, and he said, "I wish 
Santa Claus would hurry and come back." He was lonely. And 
so he thought he would go up on the housetop and look out to see 
if he could see Santa Claus coming home. LTp the steps he went. 
When he reached the top there was another flight. Up these he 
went and still another flight; up, up, he went until it seemed he 
had gone a thousand steps. But, finally, he came out on top. The 
little boy stood there with his hands on the railing and looked out, 
but all he could see were the snow fields, white and glistening. Santa 
Claus was not in sight. He could see the track over the snow that 
the sleigh had made, but that was all. 

Then down the steps he came, and it just happened that he 
came by the room that Santa Claus told him he must not go in. As 
tie passed, he stopped in front of the door and said to himself, "I 
wonder what they have in that room and why they did not want me 
to go in?" He took hold of the knob and gave it a turn, but the 
door was locked. Then he shut one eye and peeped through the 

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keyhole, but he could see nothing; it was all dark. Then he put 
his mouth at the keyhole and blew through it, but he could hear 
nothing. Then he put his nose there and smelled, but he could smell 
nothing. "I wonder what they have in that room?" he said, "I 
believe I will see just for fun which one of these keys will fit in the 
lock." 

The little boy had in his hand the great bunch of keys. He tried 
one key and that would not fit, then he tried another and another 
and another, and kept on until he came to the last key. Now, he 
said to himself, 'Tf this key does not fit I am going." He tried it 
and it was the only key on the bunch that would fit. Now he said, 
"I shall not go into the room, but I will just turn the key and see 
if it will unlock the lock. It may fit in the lock and then not unlock 
the lock." He turned the key slowly, and the latch went "click," 
"click," and then the door flew wide open. What do you suppose 
was in the room? It was all dark, the little boy could see nothing. 
He had his hand on the knob, and it seemed to him that his hand 
was caught between the knob and the key, and somehow, as the 
door opened, it pulled him in. When he stepped into the room, he 
felt a breeze blowing and, more than that, as he stepped down, he 
found the room did not have any bottom; just a dark hole. 

Well as the little boy stepped over into the room, he felt him- 
self falling, away down, down, down yonder. He shut his eyes, ex- 
pecting every moment to strike something and be killed. But before 
he did some one caught him by the shoulders and shook him and 
said, "Wake up! Wake up!" He opened his eyes, and where do you 
suppose the little boy was? At home. It was Christmas morning 
and his father was calling him to get up. The sun was shining across 
his little bed. He looked towards the fireplace and there all the 
stockings were hanging full. The little boy had been to see Santa 
Claus, but he went by that wonderful way we call "Dreamland." 



"Through imaginative literature abstract truths are made to have for 
the child a reality which is given to them by the experiences of daily life 
only by the slowest degrees." — Bates. 

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Ol)e Stor^ of 3Cing Artl)ur 

(In Twelve Numbers) 

!6y Winona (T. 5tlartln 

V. The Adventures of Geraint with the 
Sparrow- Hawk 

' "J|N the days when the Round Table was at the height of its 

|l glory* it was Arthur's custom to hold his court at Caerleon- 
Upon-Usk once a year at the Feast of Pentecost, which, it 
will be remembered, was likewise his birthday and the anniversary of 
his coronation. And it was also his rule never to sit down to the 
banquet that was then spread until he and his knights had either seen, 
or heard of, some unusual thing. 

-On this particular day, therefore, the King and the Queen and 
all the noblemen and ladies of the court were assembled in the high 
hall of the castle awaiting the report of some strange adventure, and 
feeling sure, such were the exciting times in which they lived, that it 
would be forthcoming in some shape or form before very long. Sud- 
denly there appeared in their midst Arthur's chief forester, still wet 
from the woods, bearing the news that a white hart had been seen 
in the forest. 

Now a white hart was then, and is still, an unusual sight; and 
the report of its appearance was considered by all to be sufficiently 
peculiar to permit the feast to begin. Naturally, therefore, the con- 
versation as the guests passed into the banquet hall was about this 
wonderful animal. 

"Ah! how beautiful it must be, and how I should like to possess 
its head!" exclaimed one of the Queen's maidens; and her wish was 
echoed by first one and then another of her companions. 

Hearing this, the gallant knight.s were immediately on the alert. 

"Since the ladies desire this head," they cried enthusiastically, 
turnmg toward their King, "why may we not procure it for them.?" 

At this Arthur smiled, and gave the order for the horns to be 
blown announcing a hunt for the following day. 

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"And he who slays the hart," said he, "shall have the head with 
the privilege of bestowing it upon the lady whom he loves best in all 
the world." 

To this plan they were all ready enough to agree until one of 
the younger knights of their number, Geraint by name, a tributary 
prince of Devon, arose in his place and thus addressed his sovereign: 

"Sir King, for those of us whose hearts have already found a 
harbor in some gentle maiden's breast, the plan is a good one; but 
in case the prize should be won by such a knight as I, who am still 
heart-whole and heart-free — what then?" 

Then Arthur pondered for a moment, but before he could come 
to any decision, Launcelot arose and in his turn addressed the King: 

"Your Majesty," said he, "I suggest that, in such a case, the 
fortunate one bestow the head upon the flower of your court — Queen 
Guinevere." 

At this there was great applause, which only subsided when the 
beautiful Queen herself arose to speak. 

"My Lords," said she, "let it then be understood by all that, 
should this prize fall to my lot, I will keep it in safety and make it 
a wedding gift to the first bride that one of your number shall bring 
to our court." 

Thereupon the room rang again with the clapping of hands, and 
the matter was so arranged. 

Now the Queen had asked as a favor that she and her ladies be 
allowed to see this hunt; but when, with the first signs of dawn, the 
eager knights were up and away, Guinevere was still lost in sweet 
dreams. At last, however, she arose, and in company with a single 
maiden, took horse and crossed the river. Presently they reached 
the wood, and there, drawing rein, waited upon a tiny knoll listening 
for the baying of the hounds. 

Instead of that, however, the first sound that greeted their ear 
was that of a galloping horse's hoofs, for Geraint had also overslept, 
and was now making his tardy appearance wearing neither hunting- 
dress nor weapon, except a golden-hilted sword. 

Upon seeing the Queen, he immediately rode forward and bowed 
low, which act of courtesy she returned with stately grace. Then 
she laughed and said: 

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"Fie, Prince, you are late, later than we!" 

"Yes, noble Queen," replied Geraint, "so late, in fact, that I 
have, as you see, left arms and hunting garb at home, and am come, 
like you, to see the hunt, not to join it." 

"For shame. Sir Knight!" said the Queen, still laughing. "One 
sees plainly by your conduct that you are still free in heart, otherwise 
you would have taken more interest in this prize which all the maidens 
so desire." 

Geraint was about to make some chivalrous reply when the con- 
versation was interrupted by the sudden appearance around a bend 
in the road of a knight riding with his visor up, and thus revealing 
a j^outhful but extremely haughty countenance. At his side rode a 
lady, and behind the two lagged a little black dwarf. 

Now it occurred to Guinevere that she had never seen the man's 
face in Arthur's hall, and immediately she became curious to learn 
who he might be. Turning to her maiden, therefore, she said: 

"Go, I pray you, and ask that 
dwarf his master's name." 

But the little creature, in 
spite of the smallness of his stat- 
ure, was old and vicious and irrit- 
able, and answered with scant 
courtesy that he would give the 
damsel no information, whereupon 
the quick color came into her 
cheeks, and she replied hotly: 

"Then I will ask your master 
himself." 

"No, by my faith you shall 
not," cried the ugly little fellow. 
"You are not worthy to speak to 
such a one as he ! " And with that he 
struck at her with his whip, so that 
shereturned indignantto theQueen. 

At this Geraint, even more in- 
dignant than the maiden herself, 
spurred his horse,exclaiming sharply : 

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"SO GERAINT RODE INTO THE COURT" 

Equestrian For trait Charles I, Van Dyck.Prado, Aladrid 
(Courtesy Braun d Cie) 



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"Surely I will learn the name." 

But prince though he was, he fared no better at the hands of the 
impudent little creature, who struck at him also with his whip, cutting 
his cheek until the blood spurted forth. In an instant Geraint had 
instinctively caught at the hilt of his sword; then he remembered the 
honor of his knighthood, which would not permit him to fight with one 
smaller or weaker than himself. So he returned to the Queen and said: 

"Your Majesty, rest assured that I will avenge this insult done 
in your maiden's person to yourself. At this moment I cannnot do 
battle with the knight, for he is fully armed and I have only my 
sword. But I will follow, never losing sight of him, and doubtless I 
shall sooner or later come to a place where arms may be had for pledge 
or loan. Then I will fight him and break his pride, and on the third 
day from this, if I have not fallen in the contest, I will be with you 
again. Farewell." 

"Farewell," said Guinevere, feeling sad to see the brave young 
fellow start on such a quest. Then she added more lightly: 

"Perchance in your wanderings. Sir Geraint, you will find the 
princess who is to bring your heart into bondage." 

At this Geraint glanced down the wooded lane which the knight 
with his two conpanions was pursuing, then he laughed softly, saying: 

"Princesses, Your Majesty, are found in kings' palaces. By all 
appearances, if I follow that road, I shall be far more likely to meet 
with some ragged beggar maiden." 

"Ah well! sometimes a ragged beggar maiden has proved to be 
a princess in disguise," replied the Queen. "But however that may be, 
if you find her, Sir Prince, and are sure that she is the maiden of 
your choice, bring her to me, though she be dressed in rags and tatters, 
and I will clothe her for her bridals like the sun. Farewell." 

Then Geraint bowed low to his sovereign, and hastily spurred his 
horse lest the haughty knight should after all escape him. So he rode 
by ups and downs, through many a grassy glade, with his eyes fixed 
upon the three until at last they climbed a ridge beneath which Geraint 
when he too had reached the spot, beheld the long street of a little 
town on one side of which rose a fortress white and beautiful as if the 
workmen had just left it. On the other side, however, he saw the 
ruins of what had once been a stately castle. 

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"THE RUINS OF WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN A STATELY CA5TLE" 

Old Ruined Castle, Hobbema, Louvre, Paris (Courtesj Braun el Cie) 

Straight toward the fortress rode the knight with his companions, 
and was soon lost to sight behind its walls. Nevertheless, Geraint 
was not discouraged, for he knew that he had now tracked him to 
his lair; so he passed wearily into the village seeking arms and shelter 
for the night. He soon discovered, however, that neither would be 
so easy to find, for this tiny hamlet seemed to be a very busy place 
indeed— so busy, in fact, that none of its inhabitants appeared to 
have any time to talk to the stranger, in reply to whose questions they 
merely muttered something about a "sparrow-hawk." 

So Geraint presently came to an armorer's shop where a man 
sat vigorously riveting a helmet. Here he drew rein and called out: 

"My man, can I hire some armor from you?" 

Whereat the fellow replied, without so much as stopping work 
or turning his head: 

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"Friend, he that Labors for the Sparrow-hawk has httle time for 
idle gossip. Armor? Certainly not! You will find that each man 
has need of his own at such a time as this. Do you forget that the 
Sparrow-Hawk is to-morrow?" 

Then Geraint's anger flamed, for this was by no means the first 
answer of the kind which he had received. 

"A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!" he cried hotly. 
"You think the cackle of your hamlet the murmur of the whole wide 
world! But what is it all to me? Speak, if you are not hawk-mad 
like the rest, and tell me where I may find shelter for the night and 
arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy!" 

At this outburst the armorer looked up amazed; then, seeing 
that Geraint was richly clad, he came forward with his helmet still 
in his hand, and answered courteously enough: 

"Pardon me, stranger knight! We hold a tourney here to- 
morrow morning, and we have scarcely time enough between then 
and now for all the work there is to be done. Arms? Indeed I cannot 
tell you where you will find any, for all are needed. Shelter? The 
town is already full, but perhaps the old Earl Yniol who lives in that 
ruined castle across the bridge yonder would take you in." 

So Geraint, still feeling somewhat annoyed at the reception he 
was receiving, crossed the bridge and soon reached the gate of the 
old castle. There, dressed in a suit of f raj'ed magnificence that once had 
been fit for feasts and ceremonies, sat an aged man with a snowy- 
white beard. 

"Where are you going, my son?" said he as Geraint rode up. 

"I am looking for a harborage for the night, good father," replied 
the young man. 

To which Earl Yniol replied, for the old man was he: 

"Then enter here, I pray you, and partake of such poor enter- 
tainment as this house can afford." 

" I will gladly accept your hospitality," said Geraint, then he added 
laughingly : " So long as you do not serve me sparrow-hawks for dinner." 

At this the old earl sighed, saying: 

"My son, graver cause have I than you to curse this hedgerow 
thief — this Sparrow-Hawk; but ride in, ride in, and we will talk of 
him later." 

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So Geraint rode into the court between whose broken stones 
sprouted many a prickly star and thistle, then passed through a 
shattered archway plumed with fern, until he stood by a half-fallen 
tower looking up at a piece of turret stair worn by feet that now were 
silent. And as he waited he heard the voice of a maiden ringing 
like the clear note of a bird through the open casement of the hctll, 
and these were the words of her song: 

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither Icve nor hate. 

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or down; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

"Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

"Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate." 

The sweet singer who was thus bidding defiance to the harsh 
rulings of an unkind fate was Enid, the beautiful young daughter 
of the old earl; and now as her song ceased she heard her father 
calling, and hastened down from her bower to aid her mother in 
welcoming their guest. 

As she moved about the hall, clad in her faded silks, preparing 
and serving the simple meal with all the grace of a princess, Geraint's 
eyes followed her until his heart was stirred within him and he said 
to himself: 

"Here is the one maiden in the world for me." 

Then as they sat at meat Yniol began to tell his guest the story 
of his misfortunes. 

"You see yonder fortress.^" said he. "There lives my bitter 
enemy and the cause of all our woe. He is my nephew, and a wild and 

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turbulent fellow, therefore I refused him the hand of my daughter, 
whereupon he caused a vile slander to be circulated concerning me, 
saying that his father had left him gold in my charge which I refused 
to render up. Then, just three years ago on the night before my 
Enid's birthday, he raised my own town against me, and sacked my 
house, and foully ousted me from my earldom. After which he built 
that fortress yonder to overawe such of my friends as still are true 
to me." 

Hearing this recital of wrong and cruelty the young knight's 
fighting blood began to boil within him, and with a flash of his eye 
he asked eagerly: 

"Tell me, Earl Yniol, was that knight whom I saw ride into the 
fortress to-day with a lady and a little black dwarf your nephew .f'" 

"Yes," replied the old man. "He has come for the sparrow- 
hawk tournament which is held here every year." 

"Ah!" exclaimed Geraint, "the sparrow-hawk tournament, will 
you tell me about that?" 

"Certainly," said the Earl. "It is a tourney for which the prize 
is a golden sparrow-hawk. Every knight must bring with him the 
lady whom he loves best in all the world and try to win the sparrow- 
hawk for her. My nephew has now won it two years in succession, 
and if he wins it again to-morrow he will never need to fight for it 
again, for it will be sent to him every year. Therefore the people 
about here have named him the Sparrow-Hawk knight." 

Then Geraint rejoiced, and after telling his kind host and hostess 
the story of the insult to the Queen, he cried out exultingly: 

"Earl Y^niol, cause had I enough before to wish to fight this 
haughty Sparrow-Hawk, but now that I have heard this story, I 
swear that in to-morrow's tourney I will forever break his pride. 
Do not tell me his name, I pray you, for I will force it from his own 
lips. I only ask that you lend me arms." 

"Arms?" replied the Earl. "Surely, Prince Geraint, though 
indeed they are old and battered; but have you forgotten the condi- 
tion of entering the tournament? The rule is that no knight may 
tilt unless he brings with him the lady whom he loves best in all the 
world. Therefore I fear you cannot fight, for doubtless that fair lady 
is at this moment far away in Arthur's stately halls." 

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Then Geraint smiled as he 
answered : 

"No, Earl Yniol, that fair 
lady is not, and never has been, 
at Arthur's court; for but a few 
short hours ago I did not even 
know of her existence. But all 
that is changed now." Then, 
leaning slightly forward, he ad- 
ded: "Let me lay my lance in 
rest, my noble host, for this dear 
child, your daughter. If I fail, 
she shall go free and her name 
remain as untarnished as before; 
but if I live, and can win your 
consent and hers, she shall be my 
true wife." 

At this the old man's heart 
rejoiced, yet he did not wish to 
sacrifice his child even to better 
her own fortunes as well as his. 
He looked about, therefore, only to find that the damsel, at mention 
of her name, had slipped away; so he turned to his gentle wife who 
was sitting at his side, saying: 

"Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, and you will unaerstand this 
child of ours better than any one else. Speak to her before she goes 
to rest, and learn, if you can, what her feelings are toward this 

young prince." 

At an early hour the next morning the whole village was already 
astir, for this was the greatest day of their entire year. Geraint, his 
princely bearing showing through his battered armor, rode to the lists 
with old Yniol, where they were joined by the Countess and the fair 
Enid, who had shyly given her consent. In the centre of the field 
were set up two silver forks across which lay a silver rod, and across 
the rod was placed the golden sparrow-hawk, while circling all about 
the lists was a great crowd of knights and ladies. 

Presently a trumpet was blown, whereupon he who had offered 

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" GERAINT CAME TO AN ARMORER'S SHOP " 
Armourer, Detai' from Forge of Vulcan, Velasquez, Prado, 
Madrid {Courtesy Braun d Cie) 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



the insult to the Queen rode out proudly with his lady at his side, 
and cried aloud to her that all might hear: 

"Advance, and take as fairest of the fair the prize of beauty which 
for these two years past I have won for you!" 

Thereupon the lady was about to do his bidding when, to the 
amazement of all present, Geraint stepped forward and said cour- 
teously, remembering his knightly respect for all womanhood: 

"One moment, I pray you; this year there is another who makes 
claim to that prize." 

At this the haughty Sparrow-Hawk turned and looked disdain- 
fully at Enid in her faded silks and her champion in his rusty armor. 

"If you think your lady more worthy of the prize than mine," 
said he, "are you willing to fight with me to prove it.?" 

"I am," was Geraint's simple reply. 

Then the two set their spears in rest and crashed together so 
that three times their weapons were splintered, after which they 
dismounted and drawing their swords lashed at each other with blow 
on blow until all the crowd marvelled at such an exhibition of prowess. 
For a long time it seemed that neither would ever be victorious, but 
just as Geraint, disadvantaged by his rusty armor, was beginning to 
breathe hard, the voice of old Yniol was heard above the tumult, crying: 

"Remember the insult to the Queen!" 

At which Geraint's own heart whispered, "And remember, too, 
the wrongs of Enid!" Then he heaved his blade aloft so that it fell 
with such force upon his opponent's helmet that it cracked it through 
and the haughty knight fell to the ground with a crash. 

Instantly the victor's foot was set on his enemy's breast, while he 
cried out: 

"As champion of our noble Queen Guinevere whom you have 
insulted, I demand your name!" 

To which the once haughty knight replied: 

"I yield! My name is Edryn, son of Nudd." 

"Then Edryn, son of Nudd," said Geraint sternly, "three things 
shall you do, or else you die. First you shall ride with your lady 
and your dwarf to Arthur's court there to crave pardon of the Queen 
for your insult; after that you shall return to this place to contradict 
the vile slanders that you have circulated against your uncle; then 

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"THE TWO SET THEIR SPEARS IN REST AND CRASHED TOGETHER" 

Tournament, Rubens, Louvre, Paris {Courtesy Braun et Cie) 

you shall give back to him his earldom and relinquish forever all 
claim to his daughter's hand." 

To which Edryn answered meekly: 

"My pride is broken, for Enid sees me fall. All these things 
will I do. Sir Knight; I yield!" 

Then Geraint permitted him to rise, and saw him set off toward 
Caerleon to perform the first part of his promise. 

And now it was the morning of the third day after the stag hunt 
— the day set for Geraint's departure to present his bride at Arthur's 
court. So Enid in her ivied tower woke early and lay for a time 
thinking joyously of this sudden change in her fortunes until her eye 
happened to fall upon the faded silk gown that was the very best 
in her wardrobe. Then — for she was just a girl like other girls — the 
slow tears began to fall at the thought of the disgrace which such 
attire must surely bring upon her princely young champion when he 

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presented her to the Queen and the other richly gowned ladies of the 
court. So it happened that her mother, entering the room presently, 
found her daughter weeping bitterly on her wedding day. 

"My child, my dearest child!" she cried in distress. "What 
can be the matter.'^ Is it that you do not, after all, want to marry 
this brave young knight who has fought so nobly in our cause?" 

At this the maiden's sobbing ceased, and she managed to reply 
in a tone that convinced her mother: 

"Oh! no, no, no. How could it be that.'^ He is so brave and 
strong, yet so gentle and so kind!" 

"Then perhaps you dread to leave your father and me," continued 
the good mother. "But child, child, your husband will often bring 
you home to visit us and comfort our old age." 

But once again the maiden shook her head, and at last, brokenly, 
through her sobs, she made known the cause of her grief: 

"O Mother, Mother, it is a new dress that I want!" 

At this the Countess smiled and left the room, to reappear pres- 
ently with a beautiful silken gown all branched and flowered with 
gold, which she deposited tenderly on a near-by couch. 

"Look, Enid," she cried, "and tell me if you know it." 

The girl obeyed, and exclaimed in joyous surprise: 

"Lideed, Mother, indeed I do! It is the birthday gift you had 
prepared for me on that unhappy night when our castle was sacked 
by Edryn's men; but I thought it was destroyed with all our other 
beautiful things." 

"No," replied the Countess, "your father was able to recover -it; 
so now it is to be your wedding gown. Rise quickly and put it on." 

Meanwhile Geraint was anxiously awaiting the appearance of 
his bride-to-be; and, having grown a trifle impatient, he sent word 
to ask when she would be ready. The message was soon brought to 
him that her mother was dressing her in her best attire that she might 
do him credit at the court. At this, suddenly remembering the last 
words that the Queen had spoken to him, he hesitated for a moment, 
then he said: 

"Ask her as a special favor to me, although I can give her no 
reason for my wish, that she wear the gown in which I first saw her." 

Now when this strange request reached Enid, the girl's smile 

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faded, and she was once again very sad; 
nevertheless, remembering all that the 
noble young knight had done for her and 
her family, she quietly laid aside the beau- 
tiful robe in which she was already gowned, 
and put on her old dress, which now 
looked to her like a withered leaf in mid- 
November. Then she descended the 
turret-stairs to meet her future husband, 
whose smile showed his pleasure that she 
had respected his wish, and soon the two 
mounted horse and rode away. 

Meanwhile, during the three days 
that Geraint had spent in these varied 
adventures, there had been excitement, 
tod, at court. On the first day, the 
day of the hunt, Arthur himself had 
slain the hart; therefore the prize of the 
beautiful white head had gone to the 
Queen as the lady whom the King loved 
best in all the world. On the second 
day Edryn had arrived to make his 
humble apology. And now it was the third day — the day on which 
Geraint had promised to return if he were successful in his quest. 

Guinevere, therefore, mounted to the turrets of the castle and 
stood shading her eyes with her slender white hand and looking far 
into the distance up the vale of Usk. Presently she perceived a cloud 
of dust from which there emerged two figures on horseback — a knight 
and a lady, and after a while she was able to recognize the knight 
as Geraint. 

" But a lady with him ! " said the Queen to herself in surprise. "Ah ! 
me, I wonder if he is, after all, bringing me his ragged beggar maiden!" 

Then she descended from her tower to greet her champion and 
thank him for defending her honor. But as she spoke the gracious 
words, Geraint stepped forward and bowing low, replied: 

*'Your Majesty, do not thank me, but thank this maiden here, 

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I WILL CLOTHE HER FOR HER WED- 
DING AS NEVER MAIDEN WAS 
CLOTHED BEFORE IN BRITAIN 

Beatrice de Cusance, Van Dyck, Windsor Castle 
(Courtesy Braun et Cie) 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



but for whom I could not have fought as I did. She has promised to 
become my wife, therefore I have brought her to you in obedience 
to your last command." 

Meanwhile the ladies of the court had gathered about, and some 
were inclined to cast scornful glances upon this simple girl in her faded 
gown; but the Queen, looking past the gown into the maiden's lovely 
face and gentle eyes, opened her arms wide in welcome, then turning 
to Geraint she said: 

"Sir Prince, we gladly receive your bride at Arthur's court. 
What her name and parentage are you will doubtless inform us later, 
but I have no fear, for I know that she is royal at heart. Therefore, 
according to my promise, I will clothe her for her wedding as never 
maiden was clothed before in Britain; and besides that, the head 
of the white hart is hers, for she is the first bride to be brought to these 
halls since the stag hunt." 

GLOSSARY 5 



1. Armorer, one who makes or repairs armor. 

2. Bower, a lady's private room. 

3. Hamlet, a small village. 

4. Hart, a male deer, especially after it has 

passed its fifth year. 

5. Helmet, a covering of defensive armor for 

the head. 



6. Lair, the den of a wild animal. 

7. Lance, a long shaft with a spear-head. 

8. Lists, a jousting field. 

9. Proivcss, bravery. 

10. Sparrow-hawk, a bird that preys on spar- 
rows or other small birds. 



I^^HB 


■■^■iBHli^Hpiik^:: 


^j^^#:./..^ 


%^*^ .%•.. :. 'JM Wl^^lHl^^^^^..^j^-,, 







'THE NEXT MORNING THE WHOLE VILLAGE WAS ALREADY ASTIR " 

Detail from Pilgrims to Canterbury, Stothard, London National Gallery {Courtesy Braun et Cie) 



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(A .ifory of Russian life. Adapted from Anna Robinson's "Lilile Paidina") 

ONE da3% in Russia, there was a heavy snowstorm. The snow 
was deep on the ground; and in the forest, the branches of the 
trees bent under its weight. 

In this forest a little girl was struggling along. There was no 
path for her to follow, for the snow had covered all the paths. The 
little girl's name was Paulina. She was dressed in a long fur coat, 
and she wore a cap and mittens and gaiters of fur, so that she looked 
more like a furry animal than a little girl. She kept tramping along, 
not a bit afraid, when suddenly she heard a call for help. 

"Help! Help!" the call came. 

"Coming directly!" she called back. She went in the direction 
of the voice and soon she 'saw a man making his way towards her. 
His dress was that of a peasant. 

"Will you please direct me out of this forest, little one.^*" he 
asked. "You probably know the paths about." 

"No, I am a stranger here," Paulina answered. "I live in Kief — 
that is, I did live there; but I am on my way to my father." 

"Where is your father.?^" asked the man. 

"He is in Siberia. They banished him." 

"But, little one," said the stranger, "that is a terrible place for 
a child to go. That frozen country where wicked people are sent!" 

"O, yes — but my father is there, you know," said Paulina. 

"Who is your father?" the man asked. 

The little girl was about to tell him when she noticed a look of 
interest on the stranger's face, so she said, 

"Did you say that you had lost your way in the forest.'^ Do 
you live far from here?" 

"Yes, very far. I am lost, and am nearly perishing from hunger 
and cold. How far is it to the next village?" 

"They told me it was some miles on," said the child. "But I 
will take you back to the woodman's cottage where I spent the 
night. The woman is a kind-hearted person, and I am sure she will 
give you shelter." 

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"That is kind of you, little one," said the stranger, "but you 
will be hindering your own journey, if you do that." 

'T know that my father would want me to show a kindness, even 
though it did put me back some," Paulina said. 

"You must have a good father, to give you such training. Why 
did the Emperor send him into exile?" the stranger asked her. 

"O, my father had enemies who lied to the Emperor — and there 
was no chance given to my father to explain. So the Emperor sent 
him away to Siberia, — and I am trying to find my way there to him." 

While they walked through the forest, the stranger told Paulina 
about his own little daughter who was expecting him to spend 
Christmas with her. At last they reached the woodman's hut. The 
woman greeted them kindly, and while Paulina went into another 
room to help her prepare the evening meal, the stranger was left 
warming himself by the fire, and rocking the cradle. 

Once Paulina thought she heard voices, as if the stranger were 
talking to someone; but when she went back, she found him alone, 
still warming his hands and rocking the cradle with his foot. 

That night the stranger slept on the floor in front of the fire — 
there was no other place for him; but he was glad to be safe from 
the storm outside. 

Early in the morning, the two started out through the forest 
again. They must hurry if they were to reach the next village 
before darkness fell. The storm had passed over, and the day was 
cold and clear. A beautiful winter's day. The little girl and the 
stranger reached the village on the other side of the forest early in 
the afternoon, and there before them they saw a beautiful sleigh drawn 
by four horses. There were four servants standing near. 

"What a lovely sleigh!" exclaimed Paulina. 

"Yes, I wonder where they are going. I will ask them," the 
stranger said. He went nearer the men and spoke to them. 

"We are driving for our master to Igorhof," they said. 

"Why, that is where my daughter is. If I might only ride with 
you, I could spend Christmas with her. To-morrow is Christmas 
day, you know. And little one, you could spend Christmas with us 
too." 

"O, no," said Paulina. "I could not take the time. I must 

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hurry on to my father. But it would be lovely if we could only 
ride in this beautiful sleigh." 

"You could spend the night with us, and then we could set you 
on your way, because you have been so kind to me," the man told her. 

The servants were willing to let them ride in the beautiful sleigh, 
and soon they were speeding over the snow toward the great city. 
Once, the stranger took a scarf from a pocket on the side of the 
sleigh and threw it about his neck. Paulina frowned, and promptly 
placed it back in the pocket. 

"It isn't right for you to touch anything in the sleigh. It belongs 
to some one else. I am beginning to fear that you may not be an 
honest man," she said gravely. 

The stranger laughed at her, but he did not take the scarf again. 
They sped on over the snow until, as darkness fell, they reached 
the city. Soon, they entered a large courtyard, and the stranger 
took Paulina's hand and led her into a narrow passageway, and up 
a shiall, winding stairway. 

"Where are you taking me.''" asked Paulina. "I feel almost 
sure now, that you are not an honest man. I think that you may 
even be a thief!" 

The man laughed again. 

"No, I am an honest man. You will believe me when you see 
my little daughter. I trusted you in the forest. Now you trust me." 

He led her into a large room, and they sat down upon a sofa. 

"We will wait here until my daughter comes," he said. 

Soon the door opened, and a beautiful little girl, about as large 
as Paulina, came toward them. She looked puzzled when she saw 
the rough looking man with the little girl. She went close to the 
stranger and looked into his face. 

"It is my father!" she cried, and threw her arms about his neck. 

"But why are you dressed like a peasant.'^ Has there been an 
accident.'* And who is this little stranger?" 

The man took her on his lap and told her how his sleigh had 
been overturned in the storm, and how he had found his way to a 
peasant's hut, where they had given him dry clothes to put on, and 
how he had started out alone to find his way through the forest; 
and how he was nearly perishing with cold and hunger when this 

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little girl had rescued him, and how if it had not been for her, he 
would have died in the snow in the forest. He told her how little 
Paulina was on her way to Siberia to find her father, and how they 
went to the woodman's hut where a servant had found him, and how 
he had planned for the sleigh to meet them on the other side of the 
forest. 

"O," Paulina interrupted him, "then there was somebody talking 
with you when we were preparing the evening meal.'*" 

"Yes, and everything came out just as I had planned. And do 
you know, little daughter, this Paulina here would not let me put 
my own scarf about my neck. She thought that I was a thief. She 
is an honest little girl. But she will not tell me her name. She 
does not trust me." 

"But why should I trust you, when you will not tell me who 
you are, or anything about yourself.'*" Paulina asked. 

"Do trust my father, Paulina. I'm sure he can help you. He 
will tell you who he is, soon, I know," the beautiful little girl said. 

"Yes, little one," the stranger said. "I know some one who 
would speak to the Emperor about your father, and perhaps he could 
be pardoned. Please tell me your name; and then before you go 
away I will answer any questions about myself you may ask me." 

"Do tell my father, Paulina," the little girl urged. 

Paulina threw her arms about the stranger's knees. 

"O, if you could only get the Emperor to pardon him. But I 
do not ask for a pardon — he has done nothing to be pardoned for. 
All I ask is that he may have justice done him. My father is 
Vladimir Betzkoi." 

The stranger frowned, and then he whispered, "There must be 
some mistake. He must be a good man to have such an honest lit- 
tle daughter." Then he said to Paulina, "Do you believe now that 
I am an honest man, since you have seen my daughter.^*" 

"O, yes, indeed I do. You couldn't help being good and honest. 
She is so beautiful. I think her face is like what a queen's should 
be," Paulina answered eagerly. 

The stranger and his little daughter smiled, and the man said, 
"Well, I believe that your father is an honest man, since I have 
seen you. And I can tell you now, I know he will be pardoned." 

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"Tell her, father, tell the little Paulina who you are," his daughter 
whispered. 

"Until your father returns to you, little one, you must stay here 
and I will be a father to you— as I am father to all the people of 
Russia, for / am the Emperor!" 

Just then the bells began ringing, and voices outside began singing, 
— for it was the beginning of Christmas morning. And Paulina 
said, 

"This is the happiest Christmas morning I have ever known." 



Ol)e (t[)ns\mas Visitor 

^Y ittarietta StocKar6 

(From the German) 

ONCE upon a time there lived a man and his wife who had but 
one child, a little boy. He was a lovely child, strong, well, 
merry, but best of all, ki.id and thoughtful. 

The father and mother were sometimes sad because they had 
so little money with which to buy things for their boy. 

One year when Christmas came round, the little boy walked 
through the streets of the city looking longingly into the windows 
at the beautifully lighted Christmas trees. 

His father had only money enough to buy one large apple, a roll, 
and a single candle for the boy. "Come, let's go home to mother 
now," the father said. 

When they reached home the mother had kindled a bright fire 
on the hearth. It sparkled and glowed until the whole room was 
bright with the light. 

"Welcome home," said the mother. "Here is a cup of milk for 
our boy. Now tell me of the wonderful sights you have been seeing." 
They drew near the fire and were merrily talking together when 
there came a faint knock at the door. The little boy ran to open it, 
and there on the threshold stood another little boy. His face was 

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beautiful, but he was very white and tired. He was shivering from 
the cold. 

"Come in to our fire," said the little boy, taking the stranger's 
hand, and leading him in. The father and mother welcomed him 
too. Then the little boy gave the stranger child half of his roll and 
milk. He shared the apple with him too, and when they had 
finished eating he said, "Now let us light our Christmas candle. 
We have but one, but that will burn merrily." 

The candle was lighted, and the father and mother stood smiling 
by while the stranger child and the little boy talked together of 
Christmas. By and by the stranger child thanked them for their 
kindness to him and before they could stop him he vanished into 
the night. 

A year went by, and in that year sickness and misfortune came 
upon the good man and his wife. When Christmas Eve came round 
again there was not even a penny for a roll, or wood for a fire. The 
little boy stood in the dark room beside the bed in which lay his 
sick father and mother. 

Suddenly the door opened, and a bright light fell into the room. 
There in the light stood the beautiful stranger child dressed in shiny 
white and bearing a Christmas tree in his arms. Behind him were 
twelve old men. They were kindly looking men with long white 
beards and each had a great sack upon his back. One by one they 
placed the sacks upon the floor. The stranger child lifted up his 
hands and said, "I bring you blessings. Last year you shared with 
me. I return it to you tenfold." 

Then he lighted the candles upon the Christmas tree and was 
gone. The tree was loaded with apples of gold, and in the bags were 
food and rich gifts. The father and mother rose from their beds, 
and they kept a happy Christmas. 

As the years went by they became rich and were very happy 
together, but they never forgot the stranger child, and even when the 
little boy grew to be a man he always left his door open on Christmas 
Eve so that any little child who was outside in the darkness and the 
cold might come in and share his light, warmth and Christmas joy. 



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Ol)<i Stor^ of t^e Clou anb tb<^ 
Ol^lfare 

A Hindu Folk Story 

ON the Mandara mountain there lived a Lion named Fierce-of- 
heart, and he was perpetually making massacre of all the wild 
animals. The thing grew so bad that the beasts held a public 
meeting, and drew up a respectful remonstrance to the Lion in these 
words : 

"Wherefore should your Majesty thus make carnage of us all? 
If it may please you, we ourselves will daily furnish a beast for your 
Majesty's meal." The Lion responded, "If that arrangement is 
more agreeable to you, be it so;" and from that time a beast was 
allotted to him daily, and daily devoured. One day it came to the 
turn of an old hare to supply the royal table, who reflected to himself 
as he walked along, "I can but die, and I will go to my death 
leisurely." 

Now Fierce-of -heart, the lion, was pinched with hunger, and 
seeing the Hare so approaching he roared out, "How darest thou 
thus delay in coming.'^" 

"Sire," replied the Hare, "I am not to blame. I was detained 
on the road by another lion, who exacted an oath from me to return 
when I should have informed your Majesty." 

"Go," exclaimed King Fierce-of -heart in a rage; "show me in- 
stantly, where this insolent villain of a lion lives." 

The Hare led the way accordingly till he came to a deep well, 
whereat he stopped, and said, "Let my lord the King come hither 
anc! behold him." The Lion approached, and beheld his own reflec- 
tion in the water of the well, upon which, in his passion, he directly 
flung himself, and so perished. 



As I have been interested in Playgrounds and also have a story hour 
in our library, I thoroughly appreciate your magazine in my work for it has 
filled a long need. Elsie M. Hechman, 

Allentown, Pa. 
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Ol)^ (Tonservatlon of a treble 
3feritao[e 

President Alma College, Alma, Michigan 

ONE of the noblest heritages of Teutonic races is crystaHzed in the 
"Ich dien," I serve, which is the motto of the Prince of Wales. 
Service has ever appealed to German and American and Englishman 
as the supreme worth of life. Among Teutonic peoples this inspiring 
ideal is a common inheritance, for it had its inception among the ancestors 
of us all who, dwelling among the fogs of northwestern Europe, faced 
death in countless forms that they might help a friend or aid a neighbor. 
The songs and the sagas, the epics and the myths all seem vibrant with 
the refrain *'Ich dien." 

What better means of conserving this noble heritage can be conceived 
than the oral story? All agree that it should be conserved. The children 
of each generation should be saturated with unselfish ideals of service. 
Can this in any other way be so efficiently accomplished as through the 
story .'* 

For example, consider that thrilling Teutonic epic "Beowulf," claimed 
alike by German and Englishman and American as the beginning of his 
literature. The hero, from whom the saga takes its name, learns that 
King Hrothgar, who dwells beyond the sea (probably the Skagerrack or 
the Cattegat), has been forced to give up the use of Heorot, his splendid 
mead-hall just without his city, because a fierce monster Grendel comes 
in the darkness and slays with the strength of thirty men. Beowulf, to 
aid his unknown neighbor, takes faithful companions and crosses to the 
land of the afflicted ruler. There, having made himself known, he volun- 
teers with his companions to pass the night in the abandoned Heorot. 
Grendel comes, awful, fear-inspiring, death-dealing, a mighty monster 
half human and half beast. Unarmed, Beowulf attacks him, for this 
fair-dealing man will not take advantage even of such a fearsome creature 
as Grendel. Finally after a struggle that racks the mead-hall, the monster 
reels away, his arm torn off at the shoulder. 

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In wine and song Hrothgar and his thanes but briefly rejoice; for the 
mother of the monster, seeking vengeance, takes toll of the king's bravest, 
and many are left cold in death. In mortal terror the thanes seek safety. 
Again Beowulf volunteers his aid. His motto is ever "Ich dien." 
He dives deep into the water of the firth, he passes through the under-sea 
entrance of the mother-monster's cave, he rises into the great cavern 
illumined from above. In hand to hand conflict he after long struggle 
slays. Hrothgar and his companions have waited on the bank above. 
They see the blood boiling up amid the waves, and depart in saddened 
mood; it can be only the blood of the hero. But Beowulf's loyal friends 
are of greater confidence, and their patience is in time rewarded by the 
reappearance of the leader. The rejoicing is unmeasured. 

Laden with precious gifts the unselfish Beowulf returns to his home 
beyond the whale-path. In time, after the death of his kingly father, 
be becomes the ruler of his people. For fifty years he guides and guards 
them. Then he learns of a mighty pile of gold unceasingly watched by 
the fire-dragon. His people need this gold. He alone dare seek it. He 
meets the dragon; with smoke he is suffocated, with fire he is burned; 
but his true blade ultimately finds the life of the monster, and the heap 
of gold is free to his people. But his life is laid down for his friends. 

Even thus briefly sketched, the splendid spirit of service that dominated 
the life of Beowulf thrills us with pulsing blood. His life was not for 
selfish glory; it was for unselfish helpfulness. And from "Beowulf" to 
"William the Conqueror" by KipUng the ringing note in Teutonic literature 
has been service. We of the light hair and blue eye demand the Nelson 
and Lincoln type of hero rather than the Napoleon type. And what 
heroes the twentieth century is giving us! How noble, valiantly to remam 
by the sick and meet antarctic death, when abandonment of comrades 
meant return to waiting mothers and anxious wives! Scott and his com- 
panions met the Scriptural measure of unselfishness. So too have those 
heroes who have faced death, aye, who too often have met death, that 
science might concjuer the air, and that malaria and yellow fever, and 
cholera, and typhoid might be driven from human kind. The noble 
heritage of our ancesters is still ours. We must transmit it to our children. 
Can it be better done than by the oral story that makes aUve the 
self-forgetful deeds of the noble-minded of past ages, as well as of the 
fearless-hearted of today? 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Stor^ Oelling ^rtotes. 



The Lincoln Story Tellers' League, of Lincoln, Nebr., which was 
organized three years ago, has grown steadily. Meetings are held monthly 
from October to June inclusive. The officers are elected for the year at 
the last meeting before the vacation season. 

Under the guidance of the President, Miss Lucy Putney, and the 
Secretary-Treasurer, Miss Bessie Francis, interest in the League is increas- 
ing. The members of this League have a very busy season before them 
as they have arranged meetings at the East Lincoln Library, the Deten- 
tion Home, the Ortheopedic Hospital and Neighborhood House. 

The Wyche Story Tellers' League of Omaha, Nebr., now has an 
active membership of twenty -eight persons. This season's program pays 
particular attention to the teaching of ethics through story telling. 

At a recent meeting of the Story Tellers' section of the Nebraska 
State Teachers' Association, held in Omaha, Miss Margeret Delpsh, a 
member of the Wyche Story Tellers' League, was elected Secretary of that 
section. The amusing little story of "Peter," was related by Miss Vera 
Du Bois, another member, at this meeting. 

Around a blazing log fire in the home of Mrs. Samuel H. Taft, the 
members of The Story Telling Circle of Cincinnati, Ohio, enjoyed an 
Ingleside story hour, during the past week. Miss Mannheimer introduced 
each member, and in turn, each responded with a story or a poem, 
each one surprising the others with something prepared especially for the 
day. The hit of the hour was the hostess' clever monologue, " Gloriana," 
which was addressed to a limp big doll that was carried in. This doll was 
alive, but so well did she keep her pose that when she was carried away 
while the lights were switched off it took some time for the guests to realize 
just how artistic and original this bit was. 

Others who contributed interesting interpretations were Miss Caro- 
line Shipp of Dallas, Texas, the clever niece of Mrs. J. R. Hicks, who is 
spending the season at the Cincinnati School of Expression; Misses Schlear, 
Shaible, Droesch, Mulligan, Maney, Neufarth, Hager, Pierle, and Mes- 
dames Kineon, Biles, Otterbein, Cushing, Westheimer and Woods. 

The Circle meets on Tuesday and Fridays and sends Sunshine Hours 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



to mothers' meetings and to all shut-ins; to the blind and to the Childrens' 
Homes in Avondale, Walnut Hills and Hyde Park. 

— Commercial Tribune, Cincinnati, O. 

The Story Tellers' League of Little Rock, Ark., has arranged a pro- 
gram for the Season 1913-14, providing for two meetings a month from 
November to May, inclusive. If one may judge from the list of subjects 
to be discussed the League members have many pleasant evenings in store 
during the Winter and Spring, 

The Library Committee of The Young Women's Christian Association 
of Tampa, Fla., have inaugurated the Story Telling movement success- 
fully in that far Southern city. On the evening of November 17th, an 
"Evening of Story and Song," was given, before a large and enthusiastic 
audience, and it is expected that out of this will grow the organization of a 
Story Tellers' League. The movement was launched under the best possi- 
ble auspices, and the Library Committee comprises Mesdames Lowry, 
EUis, Bie, Wall and Bailey. 

The Story Tellers' League of New Orleans, La., has arranged an un- 
usually attractive program for the Season 1913-14, including a number of 
folk lore meetings during the Winter and Spring, ending with an open air 
meeting, embracing stories and games, in May, The League is endeavoring 
to interest the Mothers' Club of New Orleans, and has invited the members 
to attend its meetings. 

The yearly program for 1913-14 is as follows: 
October — Meeting of members, who discussed the year's work. 
November — American folk lore; (a) Louisiana folk lore; (b) Indian folk 

lore; (c) discussion. 
December — Norse folk lore; (a) Norse folk lore stories; (b) talk on story 

telling; (c) discussion. 
January — Open meeting. Lecture. The league hopes to have Miss Fleming. 
February — German folk lore. Leader — Miss Frotcher. 
March — Celtic folk lore. 
April — French folk lore. 
May — Open air meeting under the oaks at Audubon Park; stories and games. 

The League has succeeded in having the main Public Library establish 
a Story Hour once a month. Miss Eleanor Payne conducted the first 
Story Hour on October 25th, and her audience was very attentive. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



WEST VIRGINIA'S FLOURISHING LEAGUES. 

In the fall of 1912, R. L. Cole, a teacher in the Hinton W. Va., High 
School, was selected by Mr. R. T. Wyche, to represent the National Story 
Tellers' League, in West Virginia. At once work was started and letters 
were sent through the State, suggesting the organization of Local Leagues. 
As a result new leagues were formed, with a total membership of about 
seventy-five. The first definite organizing work was done at a Round 
Table meeting which was held in Marlington about the first of November. 
At this time Greenbrier County was organized with Mr. H. Clark Bailey, 
of White Sulphur Springs, as President; Superintendent W. F. Richardson, 
of Lewisburg, Vice-President, and Miss Margaret Jackson, of Lewisburg, 
Secretary and Treasurer. In June there was held in Parkersburg, in con- 
nection with the State Educational Meeting, a conference both State and 
National. The day was spent in one of Parkersburg's Parks, playing games 
and telling stories. There were probably forty or fifty in attendance at 
the meeting, which was a decided success. Everyone present went away 
enthusiastic over the work and looking forward to the next meetings. At 
that time the State officers for the new year were elected. They were: 
R. L. Cole, of Hinton, President, and Miss Clara Lytic, of Parkersburg, 
Secretary and Treasurer. Since that time an Executive Committee has 
been appointed, composed of the President, Secretary and Treasurer and 
Miss NeUie Osgood, of Huntington, Miss Eva M. Fling, of Fairmont,' 
Mrs. Walter M. Parker, of Athens, Mr. Chas. S. Crow, of the University 
at Morgantown, Miss Mary B. Fontaine of Charleston and Mr. Dallas 
C. Bailey, of Enterprise. 

During the summer a place was given for Story Telling on the Institute 
programs, and also a Story Hour was suggested. In a number of places this 
was done with great success. Some of the instructors recognized the 
importance of the story in the work of the schools, and so made the most of 
the opportunity. In Huntington, for instance, almost two hours of the 
regular session period was given over to this important work. 

It was proved beyond a doubt that the story and game combined 
have become a great part of our Educational System. Also that nothing is 
going to carry with it as much profit, both to the teachers and the pupils as 
this opportunity to relax in a natural way and obey our instincts for play- 
ing games and hearing stories. 



362 



Trom tl)e £6ltor'5 Stu6Y 



"^^^ HE spirit of Christmas is the spirit of giving, of sharing 
\^ with others the things that give us pleasure; it is one with 
the spirit of the storyteller, whose highest joy is to give 
pleasure to his hearers. It is true he may momentarily give 
them pain, when deeds of evil are related in the story, but when 
evil is shown to be but temporary, and health, hope, happiness 
the normal order of things, and the good overcoming evil, then 
by contrast, happiness is greater, because goodness has been 
tried and vindicated. 

He who would enjoy the Christmastide must throw himself 
whole heartedly into the work of making others happy. If 
we seek happiness for self alone, we cannot find it, it is a by- 
product found along the pathway of service and duty to others. 
Life is social, and our keenest joys are those which we share 
with others. He who gives must study and understand the 
needs of those to whom he gives. Indiscriminate giving fre- 
quently does harm. We can give that which may satiate the 
senses or we can give that which, through the senses, elevates 
and ennobles. 

Some years ago an exhibit was given in Teachers College, 
New York, of Christmas presents for young people — of those 
injurious and worthless, and those worth while and helpful. 
The storyteller, facing his audience, must solve a similar 
problem. Without thought or study, but yet with good voice 
and expression, he can tell stories that are worthless and injurious, 
that for the moment appeal to the senses, but are wholly lack- 
ing in any uplifting quality or literary value. Or he can tell 
stories which, because of their universal qualities, are not at 
first as catchy, but ever grow upon the hearers, holding up lofty 
ideals that inspire throughout life, that clothe the mind as a 

363 



itiiiKiiiKriiZ 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



beautiful garment, and that in the end make a much deeper 
sense appeal because of their high literary qualities. 

But as love leads the giver at Christmas time to discriminate, 
holding always in mind the highest good of the recipient of his 
gifts, so must it be with the storyteller; if love is in his heart 
for his audience it will lead him to study and interpret his 
stories as nothing else will. It will give his voice a soulful 
quality that is felt at once by his audience, enabling him to make 
those dehcate and subtle touches that will put his work on a higher 
plane, and make it a beautiful art. It will help him to feel the 
sacredness of his work, and send him forth wath a sweeter message. 

He who would receive the highest good from the Christmas 
season, must look into its origin, and trace its historical develop- 
ment through the centuries, and see how it has left its impress 
on the world. With the greater enrichment of art and literature, 
of all nations and ages, that we have today; with our widening 
horizon of national life and a world-wide feeling of brotherhood 
among all nations, we should make Christmas mean more joy 
and good-will than it has ever meant. 

So the storyteller should look into the source of his stories, 
trace their impress on the world through the ages, and tell 
them to-day in a larger and better way than they have ever 
been told. A great host of young people that no man can 
number the world over, are calling, "Tell me a story." Stories 
of the first Christmas, of the first Christmas Tree, of Why the 
Chimes Rang, of the mysterious Santa Claus, and of stories of 
love and service, of fairies, elves, brighten the atmosphere of 
every child's home. Surely it is a time to free one's mind of 
all evil brooding, to forgive and to forget, and to start life 
anew. Let the story-tel'ers feel afresh the meaning of their 
message, and let them go forth like evangels with the song of 
the first Christmas, of Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men. 

364 




3From tl)e ytiail '^a% 



I was delighted to run across a copy of your magazine the other day 
in a railroad station. I decided at once that I must add it to my list of 
periodicals. Enclosed please find a draft for which please enter my sub- 
scription for a year to begin with the June number. The publisher's path 
is not one of roses all the way and so I send my hearty good wishes for your 
success. You have a mission and I hope that you will receive support 
which will enable you to fulfill it. I was so pleased to be refreshed with 
the incidents attending the writing of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata; T 
once knew the story but it had become buried quite deeply in my mind- 
too deeply for recall, if that is possible. 

Hoping to receive my back numbers in due time, and again wishing you 
well in your new enterprise, I am, A. M. Wolgamott, Manager. 

The Manual Arts Press, Peoria, HI. 

■ I want to thank you for the copies of The Storytellers' Mag.\zine 
which you had sent to me at Decatur. It was a pleasure to show them to 
the teachers and I felt genuine satisfaction in recommending the magazine 
as a help in school work. Personally I am delighted with the prospect of 
having such a magazine to use in the Training School and among the 
grade teachers. Mary Elizabeth Weber, 

Youngstown, Ohio. 

Allow me to thank you for Vol. I, No. 1 of the Storytellers' Mag- 
azine and to express my deep interest in its success. I shall call the at- 
tention of my teachers to the excellence of the magazine and the great 
promise of help it holds forth. Enclosed please find check for subscription. 

Edgar Dubs Shimer, 
Department of Education, City of New York, Flushing, L. I. 

Will you please start my subscription to the magazine with the July 
number as it is the first of the King Arthur stories. Will you please send 
it as soon as possible, as I want to use it in my work here. I am delighted 
with my first number, it is just what I have been looking for and don't 
know how it happened I never have seen it before. 

Mrs. J. Dale Stentz, Austin, Texas. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



Slor^ Oellers' Ceagues 

The Storytellers' Magazine publishes for the convenience of those 
interested in the story teUing movement a finding list of Story Tellers' 
Leagues throughout the United States. Correspondence is invited in order 
to supply omissions caused by lack of information so that the Magazine 
may be made as complete as possible. 

Leagues marked with a * publish Year Books. 

I3l)e ^Jtatlonal Stor? Oellers' TCeague 

Home Office, 27 West Twenty-third Street, New York 



Officers 



Richard T. Wyche, President 

27 West 23d St., N. Y. 

James H. Van Sickle, Vice-President 

Superintendent of Schools, SpringfiieId,Mass. 



R. M. Hodge, Secretary 

552 W. liath St., N. Y. 

W. H. Keister, Treasurer 

Superintendent of Schools, Harrisonburg, Va. 



ALABAMA 

LIVINGSTON — "Uncle Remus" Story Tellers' League — Miss Frances Seals, President — 
Miss Beth L. Martin, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Alabama State Normal, Livingston, 
Ala. 

MONTEVALLO — *Alabama Girls' Technical Institute — Story Tellers' League — 
Miss Myrtle Brooke, President — P. O. Address: Alabama Girls' Technical Institute, 
Montevallo, Ala. 

TUSCUMBIA — Story Tellers' League — Miss Rayner Tillman, President — P. O. Address: 
Care Public Schools, Tuscumbia, Ala. 

ARKANSAS 

LITTLE ROCK — *Story Tellers' League — Miss Eliza Hoskins, President — Miss Dora 
Hooper, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Care Superintendent City Schools, Little Rock, Ark. 

COLORADO 

DENVER — Story Tellers' League — Miss Edwina Fallis, President — P. O. Address: 63 
Franklin St., Denver, Col. 

CONNECTICUT 

HARTFORD— Story Tellers' League— Prof. E. P. St. John, President— Miss Ethel H 
Wooster, Secretary — P. O. Address: Hartford School Religious Pedagogy, Hartford, Conn 

366 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



DELAWARE 

WILMINGTON— Story Tellers' League— Miss Mabel Hooper, President— Miss Bessie 
Devine, Secretary — P. O. Address: Friends School, Wilmington, Del. 

GEORGIA 

ATHENS— "Round Table"— Prof. D. L. Earnest, President— M\ss Janie Thorpe, Cor. 
Secretary — P. O. Address: State Normal, Athens, Ga. 

ATLANTA — Story Tellers' League — Mr. George B. Hinman, Hon. President — Mrs. Charles 
Goodman, President — Mrs. Meta Barker, Cor. Secretary— V . O. Address: 24 Park Lane, 
Ansley Park, Atlanta, Ga. 
"JusT-So" Story Tellers' Club — Mr. Walter McElrath, President — Miss Meta Barker, 
Secretary and Treasurer— ^P. O. Address: 68 East Avenue, Atlanta, Ga. 

DALTON — Story Tellers' League — Mr. T. S. Lucas, President — P. O. Address: Supt. 
City Schools, Dalton, Ga. 

ILLINOIS 

BLOOMINGTON— Story Tellers' League— Miss Frances E. Foote, Hon. President- 
Mrs. C. B. Hanson, President — Mrs. Perry B. Johnson, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 
402 West Chestnut St., Bloomington, 111. 

CARBONDALE— Story Tellers' League— Miss Fadra R. Holmes, President— P. O. 
Address: State Normal School, Carbondale, 111. 

CHICAGO— *Story Tellers' League— (Chicago Branch Natl. S. T. L.)— Miss Alice 
O'Grady, President — Miss Grace Hemingway, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 444 N. Oak 
Park Ave., Oak Park, 111. 

DECATUR— Story Club— Miss Flora B. Smith, President— P. O. Address: 657 W. Main 
St., Decatur, 111. 

NORMAL — Story Tellers' League, Normal University — Frances E. Foote, President — 
Miss Ada Kreider, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Normal University, Normal, 111. 

SPRINGFIELD — Sangamon County Story Tellers' League — Miss Emma Grant, President 
— P. O. Address: Care of Superintendent Schools, Springfield, 111. 

IOWA 

DES MOINES— Story Tellers' League— Miss Jeanette Ezekiels, President— P. O. Ad- 
dress: Kindergarten Dept., Drake University, Des Moiens, la. 

KANSAS 

HUTCHINSON— Story Tellers' League— Miss Almeda Gabrielson, President— P. O. Ad- 
dress: 111 7th Ave., East, Hutchinson, Kansas. 

TOPEKA — Story Tellers' League — Miss Linna E. Bresetle, President — P. O. Address: 
506 Polk St., Topeka, Kan. 

KENTUCKY 

COVINGTON— Story Tellers' League— Miss Lily Southgate, President— P. O. Address: 
High School, Covington, Ky. 

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THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



FORT THOMAS— Story Tellers' League— Miss Bessie J. White, Cor. Secretary—?. O. 
Address: Southgate Ave., Fort Thomas, Ky. 

LOUISVILLE — Story Tellers' League — Miss Nannie Lee Frayser, President — P. O. Ad- 
dress: University School, Louisville, Ky. 

NEWPORT — Campbell County Story Tellers' League — Miss Florence Savage, Cor. Sec- 
retary — P. O. Address: 36 Home Ave., Newport, Ky. 

LOUISIANA 

NEW ORLEANS — *Story Tellers' League — Miss Eleanor Payne, President — Miss Ida 
Bamett, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 1631 Octavia St., New Orleans, La. 

SHREVEPORT — Story Tellers' League — Miss Pearl Fortson, President — P. O. Address: 
High School, Shreveport, La. 

MASSACHUSETTS 

WORCESTER — Sunday School Teachers' Story Hour — Mrs. L. E. Ware, President — 
Miss Sara Southwick, Secretary — P. O. Address: 144 Pleasant St., Worcester, Mass. 
Established 4 years; meets once a month at home of members. 

MICHIGAN 

ADRIAN — *Story Tellers' League — Miss Nellie Stow, President — Miss Fanny Rich, Cor. 
Secretary — P. O. Address: Care Public Library, Adrian, Mich. 

CALUMET — Story Tellers' League — Mrs. Robert Wetzel, President — Miss Ella Josey, 
Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Care C. & H. Library, Calumet, Mich. 

DETROIT — Story Tellers' League — Miss Mary Conover, President — Miss Alice M. 
Alexander, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Children's Room, Public Library, Detroit, Mich. 

MISSOURI 

ST. JOSEPH — *St. Joseph Story Tellers' League — Miss Martina Martin, President — 
Miss Margaret Fareking, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 1807 Faraon St., St. Joseph, Mo. 

MISSISSIPPI 

BLUE MOUNTAIN — Story Tellers' League — Miss Jennie Hardy, President — P. O. Ad- 
dress: Blue Mountain College, Blue Mountain, Miss. 

COLUMBUS — Story Tellers' League — Miss Rosa B. Knox, President — P. O. Address: 
Normal Institute, Columbus, Miss. 

MONTANA 

BOZEMAN — Story Tellers' League — Mrs. R. J. Cunningham, President — P. O. Address: 

Bozeman, Mont. 
DILLON — Story Tellers' League — Miss Florence Mayer, President — Miss Susie Karas, 

Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: State Normal, Dillon, Mont. 

HELENA — Story Tellers' League — Mr. J. W. Curtis, President — Miss Lucile Dyas, Cor. 
Secretary— P. O. Address: Care City Schools, Helena, Mont. 

368 



THE STORYTELLERS 



MAGAZINE 



NEBRASKA 

OMAHA — *Story Tellers' League — Mrs. C. W. Axtell, President — Miss Emma Rosicky, 
Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 1015 William St., Omaha, Neb. 
*Wyche Story Tellers' League — Miss Ida M. Crowell, President — Miss Mary Krebs, 
Cor. Secretary— P. O. Address: 1332 S. 25th Ave., Omaha, Neb. 

LINCOLN — Story Tellers' League, Nebraska State Teachers' Association — Miss Margaret 
Cleland, President— F. O. Address: 2491 Q Street, Lincoln, Neb. 

NEW YORK 

NEW YORK CITY — Knickerbocker Story Tellers' League — Mrs. E. D. Burt, President 
—Mrs. Anna P. Ball, Cor. Secretary— T. O. Address: 500 West 121st St., New York. 

Informal Fireside Story Telling Circle- — Miss L. A. Palmer, President— Miss Charlotte 
Cornish, Cor. Secretary—F. O. Address: 235 East 18th St., New York. 

Graded LTnion Story Tellers' League — Miss Martha K. Lawson, President — Mrs. S. 
Schwenk, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 30 East 31st St., New York. 

SYRACUSE — Story Tellers' League — Miss Maude C. Stewart, President — P. O. Address: 
Care Willard School, Syracuse, N.Y. 

NORTH CAROLINA 

CHAPEL HILL — O. Henry Story Tellers' League — Miss Mary O. Graham, President — 
Miss Lily Jones, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Durham, North Carolina. 

WILSON — Story Tellers' League — Miss Daphne Carraway, President — Miss Florence 
Mayerberg, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 208 North Pine St., Wilson, N. C. 

OHIO 

CINCINNATI — *Story Tellers' League — Miss Pearl Carpenter, President — Miss L. O'Neill, 
Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 2371 Fairview Ave., Cincinnati, O. 

OXFORD — Story Tellers' League — Miss Annie Logan, President — P. O. Address: Miami 
University, Oxford, O. 

PIQUA — Story Tellers' League — Miss Jessie H. Masden, President — P. O. Address: 
Schmidlapp Free Public Library, Piqua, O. 

OKLAHOMA 

PONCA CITY — Story Tellers' League — Miss Lenna Mead, President — Miss Roberta 
McCuUough, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Ponca City, Okla. 



PENNSYLVANIA 

PHILADELPHIA— Story Tellers' League— Prof. F. A. Child, President— Miss Helen D. 
Mills, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: Box 38, College Hall, University of Pennsylvania, 
Philadelphia, Pa. 

NORTH EAST — North East Story Tellers' Club— Miss Laura Selkregg, President — 
Miss Almeda W^ells, Cor. Secretary—F. O. Address: 140 W. Main St., North East, Pa. 

369 



THE STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE 



SOUTH CAROLINA 

YiMMONSVILLE— Stort Tellers' League— Miss Annie W. Shuler, President— P. O. 
Address: Box 247, Timnr>.oi:svilIe. S. C. 

TENNESSEE 

HARRIMAN — Story Tellers' League — Miss Inez A. Ayers, President — P. O. Address: 
Public Library, Harriman, Tenn. 

MEMPHIS — StorT Tellers' League — Miss Mabel Lee Cooper, President — P. O. Address: 
Care Board of Education, Memphis, Tenn. 

McMINNVILLE— Story Tellers' League — Mrs. J. M. Cunningham, President — P. O. 
Address: 114 Public Square, McMinnville, Tenn. 

NASHVILLE— •*Story Tellers' League — Mrs. Charles Baker, President — Miss Cornelia 
B^.rlisdale, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: 901 Villa Place, Nashville, Tenn. 

TEXAS 

SAN ANTONIO — Mark Twain Story Tellers' League — P. O. Address: High School, 
San Antonio, Tex. 

VIRGINIA 

Harrisonburg— Story Tellers' League— Prof. C. J. Heatwole, President— T . O. Ad- 
dress: State Normal School, Harrisonburg, Va. 

RICHMOND — Story Tellers' League — Miss Lucy Coleman, President — P. O. Address: 13 
North 5th St., Richmond, Va. 

WEST VIRGINIA 

GLENVILLE — Story Tellers' League — Mr. Blaine Engle, President — P. O. Address: State 
Normal School, Glenville, W. Va. 

HINTON— Story Tellers' League— Mr. R. L. Cole, President— F. O. Address: High School, 
Hinton, W. Va. 

MORGANTOWN— Beowulf Story Tellers' Club— Mr. J. A. McRae, President— M\s3 
Marian Tapp, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: West Virginia University, Morgantown, W. Va. 

WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS— Story Tellers' League— Mr. H. C. Bailey, President- 
Miss Bettie Dunbar, Cor. Secretary — P. O. Address: White Sulphur Springs, W. Va. 



From the lower part of Dixie come these cheering words: — "Success 
to the Storytellers' Magazine! — and I feel that it is sure to succeed." 
From R. A. Ellis, who is one of our friends in Tampa, Florida, where she 
has just organized a Story Tellers' Circle. 

370 



A New King Arthur Book 

The Story of King Arthur, 

Interestingly Told in a Series of Twelve Stories 

By Winona C. Martin 

First Story — Merlin and His Prophecies. 
Second Story— How Arthur Won His Kingdom. 
Third Story— How Arthur Won His Sword *'ExcaH- 
bur," His Bride and His Round Table. 
Fourth Story— The Adventures of Gareth— the Kitchen 
Knave. 
Fifth Story — The Adventures of Geraint. 
Sixth Story — The Adventures of Tristram, the Forest 
Knight. 
Seventh Story — The Adventures of Launcelot of the Lake. 
Eighth Story — The Dolorous Stroke. 
Ninth Story — The Coming of Galahad. 
Tenth Story — The Quest of the Sangreal. 
Eleventh Story — The Achieving of the Sangreal. 
Twelfth Story — The Passing of Arthur. 



A Delightful Story Book 



For the Home Circle 
For the Schoolroom 
For the Library 



AN EXCELLENT SUPPLEMENTARY READER FOR THE 
FOURTH, FIFTH AND SIXTH YEARS OF SCHOOL 

HOME EDI TION. Handsomely hound in cloth $1.10 net. Postage 12 cents. 
SCHOOL EDI TION. For Supplementary Reading 75 cents. Postage 10 cents. 

THE STORYTELLERS COMPANY, Publishers 

80 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 



The 

Storytellers' Magazine 

A MAGAZINE OF EDUCATION IN STORYTELLING FOR 
TEACHERS, MOTHERS, GUARDIANS, STORYTELLERS, 
AND ALL INTERESTED IN GOOD MANNERS, GOOD 
MORALS, AND GOOD LITERATURE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 

Contains CHARACTER BUILDING STORIES drawn from 
the World's Best Literature, from Folk Lore, Fairy Tales, 
Fables, Indian Tales, Norse Tales, Epics, Hero Tales, and 
other literary and classical sources illustrative of those 
moral and ethical attributes which underlie the true devel- 
opment of character. 

The Friend The Foe 

of Right of Wrong 

Stories of Courtesy 

Stories of Loyalty 

Stories of Fair Play 

Stories which applaud Obedience 

Stories which denounce Trickery 

Stories which laud Honor 

Stories which despise Roguery 

Stories which praise Justice and Mercy 

Stories which decry -. Selfishness 

and Cruelty 

Stories which stand for Truth 

Stories which abhor Dishonesty 

Stories which commend the Good 

Stories which shun the Bad 

Stories of Duty 

Stories of Generosity 

Stories of Self Sacrifice 

The STORYTELLERS' MAGAZINE believes that through the 
medium of well-told short stories splendid truths may be im- 
planted in the minds and hearts of young persons, so that both 
their manners and morals will thereby become greatly improved. 
The work is a noble one and deserves the support of all who 
are interested in seeing the Magazine become a great educational 
text book — a missionary of high ideals working for the moral and 
civic welfare of the future citizens of our country. 



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